IVAN  TURGENEV 


i|-iVa 


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DREAM  TALES 
AND  PROSE  POEMS 


The  Novels  op  Ivan  Tuuqenev 

I.    RUDIN. 
II.   A  HOUSE  OF  GENTLEFOLK. 

III.  ON  THE  EVE. 

IV.  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN. 
V.  SMOKE. 

VI.  &  VII.    VIRGIN   SOIL.       2  Vols. 

VIII.  &  IX.    A   sportsman's  SKETCHES.      2  VOls. 
X.    DREAM   TALES   AND  PROSE   POEMS. 
XI.    THE  TORRENTS  OF   SPRING,    ETC. 
XII.   A   LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES. 

XIII.   THE  DIARY   OF    A   SUPERFLUOUS  MAN,   ETC. 
XIV.    A   DESPERATE  CHARACTER,    ETC. 
XV.    THE  JEW,    ETC. 


NEW  YORK  :  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
LONDON :  WILLIAM  HEINEMANN 


DREAM    TALES 
AND    PROSE    POEMS 

BY 

IVAN    TURGENEV 

Translated  from  the  Russian 
By  CONSTANCE  GARNETT 


LARGE    TYPE    FINE    PAPER    EDITION 


NEW  YORK:   THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:   WILLIAM  HEINEMANN 

1916 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


CONTENTS 


CLARA  MILITCH,  . 

PHANTOMS,  . 

THE  SONG  OF  TRIUMPHANT 

THE   DREAM, 

POEMS    IN   PROSE, 


LOVE, 


PAGB 
I 

103 

159 
199 

237 


2072995 


CLARA    MILITCH 


CLARA    MILITCH 


In  the  spring  of  1878  there  was  living  in 
Moscow,  in  a  small  wooden  house  in  Shabo- 
lovka,  a  young  man  of  five-and-twenty,  called 
Yakov  Aratov.  With  him  lived  his  father's 
sister,  an  elderly  maiden  lady,  over  fifty, 
Platonida  Ivanovna.  She  took  charge  of 
his  house,  and  looked  after  his  household 
expenditure,  a  task  for  which  Aratov  was 
utterly  unfit  Other  relations  he  had  none. 
A  few  years  previously,  his  father,  a  provincial 
gentleman  of  small  property,  had  moved  to 
Moscow  together  with  him  and  Platonida 
Ivanovna,  whom  he  always,  however,  called 
Platosha;  her  nephew,  too,  used  the  same 
name.  On  leaving  the  country-place  where 
they  had  always  lived  up  till  then,  the  elder 
Aratov  settled  in  the  old  capital,  with  the 
object  of  putting  his  son  to  the  university,  for 
which  he  had  himself  prepared  him  ;  he  bought 
for  a  trifle  a  little  house  in  one  of  the  outlying 
3 


DREAM  TALES 

streets,  and  established  himself  in  it,  with  all 
his  books  and  scientific  odds  and  ends.  And 
of  books  and  odds  and  ends  he  had  many — 
for  he  was  a  man  of  some  considerable  learn- 
ing .  .  .  'an  out-and-out  eccentric,'  as  his 
neighbours  said  of  him.  He  positively  passed 
among  them  for  a  sorcerer ;  he  had  even  been 
given  the  title  of  an  '  insectivist'  He  studied 
chemistry,  mineralogy,  entomology,  botany,  and 
medicine ;  he  doctored  patients  gratis  with 
herbs  and  metallic  powders  of  his  own  inven- 
tion, after  the  method  of  Paracelsus.  These 
same  powders  were  the  means  of  his  bringing 
to  the  grave  his  pretty,  young,  too  delicate  wife, 
whom  he  passionately  loved,  and  by  whom  he 
had  an  only  son.  With  the  same  powders  he 
fairly  ruined  his  son's  health  too,  in  the  hope 
and  intention  of  strengthening  it,  as  he  detected 
anaemia  and  a  tendency  to  consumption  in  his 
constitution  inherited  from  his  mother.  The 
name  of  *  sorcerer '  had  been  given  him  partly 
because  he  regarded  himself  as  a  descend- 
ant— not  in  the  direct  line,  of  course — of  the 
great  Bruce,  in  honour  of  whom  he  had 
called  his  son  Yakov,  the  Russian  form  of 
James. 

He  was  what  is  called  a  most  good-natured 
man,  but  of  melancholy  temperament,  pottering, 
and  timid,  with  a  bent  for  everything  mysterious 
4 


CLARA   MILITCH 

and  occult  ...  A  half- whispered  ah !  was  his 
habitual  exclamation  ;  he  even  died  with  this 
exclamation  on  his  lips,  two  years  after  his 
removal  to  Moscow. 

His  son,  Yakov,  was  in  appearance  unlike  his 
father,  who  had  been  plain,  clumsy,  and  awk- 
ward ;  he  took  more  after  his  mother.  He  had 
the  same  delicate  pretty  features,  the  same  soft 
ash-coloured  hair,  the  same  little  aquiline  nose, 
the  same  pouting  childish  lips,  and  great  green- 
ish-grey languishing  eyes,  with  soft  eyelashes. 
But  in  character  he  was  like  his  father ;  and 
the  face,  so  unlike  the  father's  face,  wore  the 
father's  expression  ;  and  he  had  the  triangular- 
shaped  hands  and  hollow  chest  of  the  old 
Aratov,  who  ought,  however,  hardly  to  be  called 
old,  since  he  never  reached  his  fiftieth  year. 
Before  his  death,  Yakov  had  already  entered 
the  university  in  the  faculty  of  physics  and 
mathematics  ;  he  did  not,  however,  complete 
his  course  ;  not  through  laziness,  but  because, 
according  to  his  notions,  you  could  learn  no 
more  in  the  university  than  you  could  studying 
alone  at  home ;  and  he  did  not  go  in  for  a 
diploma  because  he  had  no  idea  of  entering  the 
government  service.  He  was  shy  with  his 
fellow-students,  made  friends  with  scarcely  any 
one,  especially  held  aloof  from  women,  and 
lived  in  great  solitude,  buried  in  books.  He 
5 


DREAM   TALES 

held  aloof  from  women,  though  he  had  a  heart 
of  the  tenderest,  and  was  fascinated  by  beauty. 
.  .  .  He  had  even  obtained  a  sumptuous 
English  keepsake,  and  (oh  shame !)  gloated 
adoringly  over  its  'elegantly  engraved'  repre- 
sentations of  the  various  ravishing  Gulnaras 
and  Medoras.  .  .  .  But  his  innate  modesty 
always  kept  him  in  check.  In  the  house  he 
used  to  work  in  what  had  been  his  father's 
study,  it  was  also  his  bedroom,  and  his  bed 
was  the  very  one  in  which  his  father  had 
breathed  his  last. 

The  mainstay  of  his  whole  existence,  his 
unfailing  friend  and  companion,  was  his  aunt 
Platosha,  with  whom  he  exchanged  barely  a 
dozen  words  in  the  day,  but  without  whom  he 
could  not  stir  hand  or  foot.  She  was  a  long- 
faced,  long-toothed  creature,  with  pale  eyes,  and 
a  pale  face,  with  an  invariable  expression,  half 
of  dejection,  half  of  anxious  dismay.  For  ever 
garbed  in  a  grey  dress  and  a  grey  shawl,  she 
wandered  about  the  house  like  a  spirit,  with 
noiseless  steps,  sighed,  murmured  prayers — 
especially  one  favourite  one,  consisting  of  three 
words  only,  '  Lord,  succour  us  ! ' — and  looked 
after  the  house  with  much  good  sense,  taking 
care  of  every  halfpenny,  and  buying  everything 
herself.  Her  nephew  she  adored  ;  she  was  in  a 
perpetual  fidget  over  his  health — afraid  of 
6 


CLARA   MILITCH 

everything — not  for  herself  but  for  him ;  and 
directly  she  fancied  the  slightest  thing  wrong, 
she  would  steal  in  softly,  and  set  a  cup  of  herb 
tea  on  his  writing-table,  or  stroke  him  on  the 
spine  with  her  hands,  soft  as  wadding.  Yakov 
was  not  annoyed  by  these  attentions — though 
the  herb  tea  he  left  untouched — he  merely 
nodded  his  head  approvingly.  However,  his 
health  was  really  nothing  to  boast  of.  He  was 
very  impressionable,  nervous,  fanciful,  suffered 
from  palpitations  of  the  heart,  and  sometimes 
from  asthma ;  like  his  father,  he  believed  that 
there  are  in  nature  and  in  the  soul  of  man, 
mysteries  which  may  sometimes  be  divined,  but 
to  which  one  can  never  penetrate ;  he  believed 
in  the  existence  of  certain  powers  and  influences, 
sometimes  beneficent,  but  more  often  malignant, 
.  .  .  and  he  believed  too  in  science,  in  its  dig- 
nity and  importance.  Of  late  he  had  taken  a 
great  fancy  to  photography.  The  smell  of  the 
chemicals  used  in  this  pursuit  was  a  source  of 
great  uneasiness  to  his  old  aunt — not  on  her  own 
account  again,  but  on  Yasha's,  on  account  of 
his  chest ;  but  for  all  the  softness  of  his  temper, 
there  was  not  a  little  obstinacy  in  his  composi- 
tion, and  he  persisted  in  his  favourite  pursuit 
Platosha  gave  in,  and  only  sighed  more  than 
ever,  and  murmured, '  Lord,  succour  us  ! '  when- 
ever she  saw  his  fingers  stained  with  iodine. 
7 


DREAM   TALES 

Yakov,  as  we  have  already  related,  had  held 
aloof  from  his  fellow-students ;  with  one  of 
them  he  had,  however,  become  fairly  intimate, 
and  saw  him  frequently,  even  after  the  fellow- 
student  had  left  the  university  and  entered  the 
service,  in  a  position  involving  little  responsi- 
bility. He  had,  in  his  own  words,  got  on 
to  the  building  of  the  Church  of  our  Saviour, 
though,  of  course,  he  knew  nothing  whatever  of 
architecture.  Strange  to  say,  this  one  solitary 
friend  of  Aratov's,  by  name  Kupfer,  a  German, 
so  far  Russianised  that  he  did  not  know  one 
word  of  German,  and  even  fell  foul  of  *  the 
Germans,'  this  friend  had  apparently  nothing  in 
common  with  him.  He  was  a  black-haired, 
red-cheeked  young  man,  very  jovial,  talkative, 
and  devoted  to  the  feminine  society  Aratov  so 
assiduously  avoided.  It  is  true  Kupfer  both 
lunched  and  dined  with  him  pretty  often,  and 
even,  being  a  man  of  small  means,  used  to 
borrow  trifling  sums  of  him  ;  but  this  was  not 
what  induced  the  free  and  easy  German  to  fre- 
quent the  humble  little  house  in  Shabolovka  so 
diligently.  The  spiritual  purity,  the  idealism 
of  Yakov  pleased  him,  possibly  as  a  contrast  to 
what  he  was  seeing  and  meeting  every  day  ;  or 
possibly  this  very  attachment  to  the  youthful 
idealist  betrayed  him  of  German  blood  after  all. 
Yakov  liked  Kupfer's  simple-hearted  frankness ; 
8 


CLARA   MILITCH 

and  besides  that,  his  accounts  of  the  theatres, 
concerts,  and  balls,  where  he  was  always  in  at- 
tendance— of  the  unknown  world  altogether,  into 
which  Yakov  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to 
enter — secretly  interested  and  even  excited  the 
young  hermit,  without,  however,  arousing  any 
desire  to  learn  all  this  by  his  own  experience. 
And  Platosha  made  Kupfer  welcome ;  it  is  true 
she  thought  him  at  times  excessively  uncere- 
monious, but  instinctively  perceiving  and  real- 
ising that  he  was  sincerely  attached  to  her 
precious  Yasha,  she  not  only  put  up  with  the 
noisy  guest,  but  felt  kindly  towards  him. 


II 


At  the  time  with  which  our  story  is  concerned, 
there  was  in  Moscow  a  certain  widow,  a  Geor-' 
gian  princess,  a  person  of  somewhat  dubious, 
almost  suspicious  character.  She  was  close 
upon  forty ;  in  her  youth  she  had  probably 
bloomed  with  that  peculiar  Oriental  beauty, 
which  fades  so  quickly ;  now  she  powdered, 
rouged,  and  dyed  her  hair  yellow.  Various 
reports,  not  altogether  favourable,  nor  altogether 
definite,  were  in  circulation  about  her ;  her  hus- 
band no  one  had  known,  and  she  had  never  stayed 
9 


DREAM   TALES 

long  in  any  one  town.  She  had  no  children, 
and  no  property,  yet  she  kept  open  house,  in 
debt  or  othenvise ;  she  had  a  salon,  as  it  is 
called,  and  received  a  rather  mixed  society,  for 
the  most  part  young  men.  Everything  in  her 
house  from  her  own  dress,  furniture,  and  table, 
down  to  her  carriage  and  her  servants,  bore  the 
stamp  of  something  shoddy,  artificial,temporary, 
.  .  .  but  the  princess  herself,  as  well  as  her 
guests,  apparently  desired  nothing  better.  The 
princess  was  reputed  a  devotee  of  music  and 
literature,  a  patroness  of  artists  and  men  of 
talent,  and  she  really  was  interested  in  all  these 
subjects,  even  to  the  point  of  enthusiasm,  and 
an  enthusiasm  not  altogether  affected.  There 
was  an  unmistakable  fibre  of  artistic  feeling  in 
her.  Moreover  she  was  very  approachable, 
genial,  free  from  presumption  or  pretentiousness, 
and,  though  many  people  did  not  suspect  it, 
'she  was  fundamentally  good-natured,  soft- 
hearted, and  kindly  disposed.  .  .  ,  Qualities 
rare — and  the  more  precious  for  their  rarity — 
precisely  in  persons  of  her  sort !  *  A  fool  of  a 
woman  ! '  a  wit  said  of  her ;  *  but  she  '11  get  into 
heaven,  not  a  doubt  of  it !  Because  she  for- 
gives everything,  and  everything  will  be  for- 
given her.'  It  was  said  of  her  too  that  when 
she  disappeared  from  a  town,  she  always  left 
as  many  creditors  behind  as  persons  she  had 

lO 


CLARA   MILITCH 

befriended.     A  soft  heart  readily  turned  in  any 
direction. 

Kupfer,  as  might  have  been  anticipated, 
found  his  way  into  her  house,  and  was  soon 
on  an  intimate — evil  tongues  said  a  too  inti- 
mate— footing  with  her.  He  himself  always 
spoke  of  her  not  only  affectionately  but  with 
respect ;  he  called  her  a  heart  of  gold — say 
what  you  like  !  and  firmly  believed  both  in  her 
love  for  art  and  her  comprehension  of  art ! 
One  day  after  dinner  at  the  Aratovs',  in  dis- 
cussing the  princess  and  her  evenings,  he  began 
to  persuade  Yakov  to  break  for  once  from  his 
anchorite  seclusion,  and  to  allow  him,  Kupfer, 
to  present  him  to  his  friend.  Yakov  at  first 
would  not  even  hear  of  it  *  But  what  do  you 
imagine?'  Kupfer  cried  at  last:  'what  sort  of 
presentation  are  we  talking  about  ?  Simply,  I 
take  you,  just  as  you  are  sitting  now,  in  your 
everyday  coat,  and  go  with  you  to  her  for  an 
evening.  No  sort  of  etiquette  is  necessary  there, 
my  dear  boy  !  You  're  learned,  you  know,  and 
fond  of  literature  and  music ' — (there  actually 
was  in  Aratov's  study  a  piano  on  which  he  some- 
times struck  minor  chords) — '  and  in  her  house 
there 's  enough  and  to  spare  of  all  those  goods  ! 
.  .  .  and  you  '11  meet  there  sympathetic  people, 
no  nonsense  about  them !  And  after  all,  you 
really  can't  at  your  age,  with  your  looks 
ir 


DREAM   TALES 

(Aratov  dropped  his  eyes  and  waved  his 
hand  deprecatingly),  yes,  yes,  with  your  looks, 
you  really  can't  keep  aloof  from  society,  from 
the  world,  like  this !  Why,  I  'm  not  going  to 
take  you  to  see  generals !  Indeed,  I  know  no 
generals  myself!  .  .  .  Don't  be  obstinate,  dear 
boy !  Morality  is  an  excellent  thing,  most 
laudable.  .  .  .  But  why  fall  a  prey  to  asceti- 
cism? You're  not  going  in  for  becoming  a 
monk ! ' 

Aratov  was,  however,  still  refractory ;  but 
Kupfer  found  an  unexpected  ally  in  Platonida 
Ivanovna.  Though  she  had  no  clear  idea  what 
was  meant  by  the  word  asceticism,  she  too  was 
of  opinion  that  it  would  be  no  harm  for  dear 
Yasha  to  take  a  little  recreation,  to  see  people, 
and  to  show  himself. 

*  Especially,'  she  added, '  as  I  've  perfect  con- 
fidence in  Fyodor  Fedoritch !  He  '11  take  you 
to  no  bad  place !...''  I  '11  bring  him  back  in 
all  his  maiden  innocence,'  shouted  Kupfer,  at 
which  Platonida  Ivanovna,  in  spite  of  her  con- 
fidence, cast  uneasy  glances  upon  him.  Aratov 
blushed  up  to  his  ears,  but  ceased  to  make 
objections. 

It  ended  by  Kupfer  taking  him  next  day 
to  spend  an  evening  at  the  princess's.  But 
Aratov  did  not  remain  there  long.  To  begin 
with,  he  found  there  some  twenty  visitors,  men 

13 


CLARA   MILITCII 

and  women,  sympathetic  people  possibly,  but 
still  strangers,  and  this  oppressed  him,  even 
though  he  had  to  do  very  little  talking ;  and 
that,  he  feared  above  all  things.  Secondly,  he 
did  not  like  their  hostess,  though  she  received 
him  very  graciously  and  simply.  Everything 
about  her  was  distasteful  to  him  :  her  painted 
face,  and  her  frizzed  curls,  and  her  thickly- 
sugary  voice,  her  shrill  giggle,  her  way  of 
rolling  her  eyes  and  looking  up,  her  exces- 
sively low-necked  dress,  and  those  fat,  glossy 
fingers  with  their  multitude  of  rings !  .  .  . 
Hiding  himself  away  in  a  corner,  he  took  from 
time  to  time  a  rapid  survey  of  the  faces  of  all 
the  guests,  without  even  distinguishing  them, 
and  then  stared  obstinately  at  his  own  feet. 
When  at  last  a  stray  musician  with  a  worn 
face,  long  hair,  and  an  eyeglass  stuck  into  his 
contorted  eyebrow  sat  down  to  the  grand  piano 
and  flinging  his  hands  with  a  sweep  on  the  keys 
and  his  foot  on  the  pedal,  began  to  attack  a 
fantasia  of  Liszt  on  a  Wagner  motive,  Aratov 
could  not  stand  it,  and  stole  off,  bearing  away 
in  his  heart  a  vague,  painful  impression  ;  across 
which,  however,  flitted  something  incomprehen- 
sible to  him,  but  grave  and  even  disquieting. 


13 


DREAM   TALES 


III 


KUPFER  came  next  day  to  dinner ;  he  did  not 
begin,  however,  expatiating  on  the  preceding 
evening,  he  did  not  even  reproach  Aratov  for 
his  hasty  retreat,  and  only  regretted  that  he 
had  not  stayed  to  supper,  when  there  had  been 
champagne!  (of  the  Novgorod  brand,  we  may 
remark  in  parenthesis).  Kupfer  probably  real- 
ised that  it  had  been  a  mistake  on  his  part 
to  disturb  his  friend,  and  that  Aratov  really 
was  a  man  '  not  suited '  to  that  circle  and  way 
of  life.  On  his  side,  too,  Aratov  said  nothing 
of  the  princess,  nor  of  the  previous  evening. 
Platonida  Ivanovna  did  not  know  whether  to 
rejoice  at  the  failure  of  this  first  experiment 
or  to  regret  it  She  decided  at  last  that 
Yasha's  health  might  suffer  from  such  outings, 
and  was  comforted.  Kupfer  went  away  directly 
after  dinner,  and  did  not  show  himself  again  for 
a  whole  week.  And  it  was  not  that  he  resented 
the  failure  of  his  suggestion,  the  good  fellow 
was  incapable  of  that,  but  he  had  obviously 
found  some  interest  which  was  absorbing  all 
his  time,  all  his  thoughts ;  for  later  on,  too, 
he  rarely  appeared  at  the  Aratovs',  had  an 
absorbed  look,  spoke  little  and  quickly 
vanished.  .  .  .  Aratov  went  on  living  as  be- 
U 


CLARA   MILITCH 

fore ;  but  a  sort  of — if  one  may  so  express 
it — little  hook  was  pricking  at  his  soul.  He 
was  continually  haunted  by  some  reminiscence, 
he  could  not  quite  tell  what  it  was  himself,  and 
this  reminiscence  was  connected  with  the  even- 
ing he  had  spent  at  the  princess's.  For  all  that 
he  had  not  the  slightest  inclination  to  return 
there  again,  and  the  world,  a  part  of  which  he 
had  looked  upon  at  her  house,  repelled  him 
more  than  ever.     So  passed  six  weeks. 

And  behold  one  morning  Kupfer  stood  be- 
fore him  once  more,  this  time  with  a  somewhat 
embarrassed  countenance.  '  I  know,'  he  began 
with  a  constrained  smile,  '  that  your  visit  that 
time  was  not  much  to  your  taste ;  but  I  hope 
for  all  that  you'll  agree  to  my  proposal  ,  . 
that  you  won't  refuse  me  my  request !  * 

*  What  is  it  ? '  inquired  Aratov. 

'  Well,  do  you  see,'  pursued  Kupfer,  getting 
more  and  more  heated :  *  there  is  a  society 
here  of  amateurs,  artistic  people,  who  from 
time  to  time  get  up  readings,  concerts,  even 
theatrical  performances  for  some  charitable 
object.' 

*  And  the  princess  has  a  hand  in  it  ? '  inter- 
posed Aratov. 

*  The  princess  has  a  hand  in  all  good  deeds, 
but  that 's  not  the  point  We  have  arranged  a 
literary  and  musical  matinee  .  .  .  and  at  this 

15 


DREAM  TALES 

matinee  you  may  hear  a  girl  ...  an  extra- 
ordinary girl !  We  cannot  make  out  quite  yet 
whether  she  is  to  be  a  Rachel  or  a  Viardot  .  .  . 
for  she  sings  exquisitely,  and  recites  and  plays. 
...  A  talent  of  the  very  first  rank,  my  dear 
boy !  I  *m  not  exaggerating.  Well  then,  won't 
you  take  a  ticket  ?  Five  roubles  for  a  seat  in 
the  front  row.' 

'  And  where  has  this  marvellous  girl  sprung 
from  ?  '  asked  Aratov. 

Kupfer  grinned.     '  That   I   really  can't  say. 

.  .  Of  late  she 's  found  a  home  with  the 
princess.  The  princess  you  know  is  a  protector 
of  every  one  of  that  sort.  .  .  .  But  you  saw  her, 
most  likely,  that  evening.' 

Aratov  gave  a  faint  inward  start  .  .  .  but  he 
said  nothing. 

'  She  has  even  played  somewhere  in  the  pro- 
vinces,' Kupfer  continued,  *  and  altogether  she 's 
created  for  the  theatre.  There !  you  '11  see  for 
yourself!' 

'  What 's  her  name  ? '  asked  Aratov. 

'Clara  .  .  .' 

'Clara?'  Aratov  interrupted  a  second  time. 
*  Impossible  1 ' 

'Why  impossible?     Clara  .  .  .  Clara  Militch  ; 

it 's  not  her  real  name  ,  .  .  but  that 's  what  she 's 

called.     She 's  going  to  sing  a  song  of  Glinka's 

,  .  .  and  of  Tchaykovsky's ;    and  then  she  '11 

i6 


CLARA   MILITCH 

recite  the  letter  from  Yevgeny  Oniegin.     Well ; 
will  you  take  a  ticket  ? ' 

*  And  when  will  it  be  ? ' 

*  To-morrow  .  .  .  to-morrow,  at  half-past  one, 
in  a  private  drawing-room,  in  Ostozhonka.  .  .  . 
I  will  come  for  you.  A  five-rouble  ticket  ?  .  .  . 
Here  it  is  .  .  .  no,  that 's  a  three-rouble  one. 
Here  .  .  .  and  here 's  the  programme.  .  .  .  I  'm 
one  of  the  stewards.' 

Aratov  sank  into  thought  Platonida  Iva- 
novna  came  in  at  that  instant,  and  glancing  at 
his  face,  was  in  a  flutter  of  agitation  at  once. 
'  Yasha,'  she  cried,  'what 's  the  matter  with  you? 
Why  are  you  so  upset?  Fyodor  Fedoritch, 
what  is  it  you  've  been  telling  him  ? ' 

Aratov  did  not  let  his  friend  answer  his 
aunt's  question,  but  hurriedly  snatching  the 
ticket  held  out  to  him,  told  Platonida  Iva- 
novna  to  give  Kupfer  five  roubles  at  once. 

She  blinked  in  amazement.  .  .  .  However, 
she  handed  Kupfer  the  money  in  silence.  Her 
darling  Yasha  had  ejaculated  his  commands  in 
a  very  imperative  manner. 

'  I  tell  you,  a  wonder  of  wonders ! '  cried 
Kupfer,  hurrying  to  the  door.  'Wait  till  to- 
morrow.' 

'  Has  she  black  eyes?'  Aratov  called  after  him. 

'  Black  as  coal ! '  Kupfer  shouted  cheerily,  as 
he  vanished. 

17  B 


DREAM  TALES 


Aratov  went  away  to  his  room,  while  Plato- 
nida  Ivanovna  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  repeat- 
ing in  a  whisper,  *  Lord,  succour  us !  Succour 
us,  Lord  I ' 


IV 

The  big  drawing-room  in  the  private  house  in 
Ostozhonka  was  already  half  full  of  visitors  when 
Aratov  and  Kupfer  arrived.  Dramatic  perform- 
ances had  sometimes  been  given  in  this  draw- 
ing-room, but  on  this  occasion  there  was  no 
scenery  nor  curtain  visible.  The  organisers 
of  the  matinee  had  confined  themselves  to 
fixing  up  a  platform  at  one  end,  putting  upon 
it  a  piano,  a  couple  of  reading-desks,  a  few 
chairs,  a  table  with  a  bottle  of  water  and  a  glass 
on  it,  and  hanging  red  cloth  over  the  door  that 
led  to  the  room  allotted  to  the  performers.  In 
the  first  row  was  already  sitting  the  princess  in 
a  bright  green  dress.  Aratov  placed  himself  at 
some  distance  from  her,  after  exchanging  the 
barest  of  greetings  with  her.  The  public  was, 
as  they  say,  of  mixed  materials ;  for  the  most 
part  young  men  from  educational  institutions. 
Kupfer,  as  one  of  the  stewards,  with  a  white 
ribbon  on  the  cufif  of  his  coat,  fussed  and 
i8 


CLARA   MILITCH 

bustled  about  busily  ;  the  princess  was 
obviously  excited,  looked  about  her,  shot 
smiles  in  all  directions,  talked  with  those 
next  her  .  .  .  none  but  men  were  sitting  near 
her.  The  first  to  appear  on  the  platform  was 
a  flute-player  of  consumptive  appearance,  who 
most  conscientiously  dribbled  away  —  what 
am  I  saying  ? — piped,  I  mean — a  piece  also  of 
consumptive  tendency ;  two  persons  shouted 
bravo !  Then  a  stout  gentleman  in  spectacles, 
of  an  exceedingly  solid,  even  surly  aspect,  read 
in  a  bass  voice  a  sketch  of  Shtchedrin  ;  the 
sketch  was  applauded,  not  the  reader  ;  then  the 
pianist,  whom  Aratov  had  seen  before,  came 
forward  and  strummed  the  same  fantasia  of 
Liszt ;  the  pianist  gained  an  encore.  He 
bowed  with  one  hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair, 
and  after  each  bow  he  shook  back  his  hair,  pre- 
cisely like  Liszt !  At  last  after  a  rather  long 
interval  the  red  cloth  over  the  door  on  to  the 
platform  stirred  and  opened  wide,  and  Clara 
Militch  appeared.  The  room  resounded  with 
applause.  With  hesitating  steps,  she  moved 
forward  on  the  platform,  stopped  and  stood 
motionless,  clasping  her  large  handsome  un- 
gloved hands  in  front  of  her,  without  a  courtesy, 
a  bend  of  the  head,  or  a  smile. 

She  was  a  girl  of  nineteen,  tall,  rather  broad- 
shouldered,  but  well-built.     A  dark  face,  of  a 

10 


DREAM  TALES 

half-Jewish  half-gipsy  type,  small  black  eyes 
under  thick  brows  almost  meeting  in  the 
middle,  a  straight,  slightly  turned-up  nose, 
delicate  lips  with  a  beautiful  but  decided  curve, 
an  immense  mass  of  black  hair,  heavy  even  in 
appearance,  a  low  brow  still  as  marble,  tiny 
ears  .  .  .  the  whole  face  dreamy,  almost  sullen. 
A  nature  passionate,  wilful  —  hardly  good- 
tempered,  hardly  very  clever,  but  gifted — was 
expressed  in  every  feature. 

For  some  time  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes ; 
but  suddenly  she  started,  and  passed  over  the 
rows  of  spectators  a  glance  intent,  but  not 
attentive,  absorbed,  it  seemed,  in  herself  .  .  . 
'  What  tragic  eyes  she  has ! '  observed  a  man 
sitting  behind  Aratov,  a  grey-headed  dandy 
with  the  face  of  a  Revel  harlot,  well  known 
in  Moscow  as  a  prying  gossip  and  writer 
for  the  papers.  The  dandy  was  an  idiot,  and 
meant  to  say  something  idiotic  .  .  .  but  he 
spoke  the  truth.  Aratov,  who  from  the  very 
moment  of  Clara's  entrance  had  never  taken 
his  eyes  off  her,  only  at  that  instant  recollected 
that  he  really  had  seen  her  at  the  princess's  ; 
and  not  only  that  he  had  seen  her,  but  that  he 
had  even  noticed  that  she  had  several  times, 
with  a  peculiar  insistency,  gazed  at  him  with 
her  dark  intent  eyes.  And  now  too — or  was 
it  his  fancy  ? — on  seeing  him  in  the  front  row 
20 


CLARA   MILITCII 

she  seemed  delighted,  seemed  to  flush,  and 
again  gazed  intently  at  him.  Then,  without 
turning  round,  she  stepped  away  a  couple  of 
paces  in  the  direction  of  the  piano,  at  which 
her  accompanist,  a  long-haired  foreigner,  was 
sitting.  She  had  to  render  Glinka's  ballad : 
*  As  soon  as  I  knew  you  .  .  .'  She  began  at 
once  to  sing,  without  changing  the  attitude  of 
her  hands  or  glancing  at  the  music.  Her  voice 
was  soft  and  resonant,  a  contralto  ;  she  uttered 
the  words  distinctly  and  with  emphasis,  and 
sang  monotonously,  with  little  light  and  shade, 
but  with  intense  expression.  'The  girl  sings 
with  conviction,'  said  the  same  dandy  sitting 
behind  Aratov,  and  again  he  spoke  the  truth. 
Shouts  of  *  Bis  ! '  '  Bravo  ! '  resounded  over  the 
room  ;  but  she  flung  a  rapid  glance  on  Aratov, 
who  neither  shouted  nor  clapped — he  did  not 
particularly  care  for  her  singing — gave  a  slight 
bow,  and  walked  out  without  taking  the  hooked 
arm  proffered  her  by  the  long-haired  pianist. 
She  was  called  back  .  .  .  not  very  soon,  she 
reappeared,  with  the  same  hesitating  steps 
approached  the  piano,  and  whispering  a  couple 
of  words  to  the  accompanist,  who  picked  out  and 
put  before  him  another  piece  of  music,  began 
Tchaykovsky's  song  :  '  No,  only  he  who  knows 
the  thirst  to  see.'  .  .  .  This  song  she  sang 
differently  from  the  first — in  a  low  voice,  as 


DREAM  TALES 

though  she  were  tired  .  .  .  and  only  at  the  line 
next  the  last,  *  He  knows  what  I  have  suffered/ 
broke  from  her  in  a  ringing,  passionate  cry. 
The  last  line,  *And  how  I  suffer'  .  .  .  she 
almost  whispered,  with  a  mournful  prolongation 
of  the  last  word.  This  song  produced  less 
impression  on  the  audience  than  the  Glinka 
ballad ;  there  was  much  applause,  however. 
.  .  .  Kupfer  was  particularly  conspicuous ; 
folding  his  hands  in  a  peculiar  way,  in  the 
shape  of  a  barrel,  at  each  clap  he  produced  an 
extraordinarily  resounding  report.  The  prin- 
cess handed  him  a  large,  straggling  nosegay  for 
him  to  take  it  to  the  singer ;  but  she,  seeming 
not  to  observe  Kupfer's  bowing  figure,  and 
outstretched  hand  with  the  nosegay,  turned  and 
went  away,  again  without  waiting  for  the 
pianist,  who  skipped  forward  to  escort  her  more 
hurriedly  than  before,  and  when  he  found  him- 
self so  unjustifiably  deserted,  tossed  his  hair  as 
certainly  Liszt  himself  had  never  tossed  his ! 

During  the  whole  time  of  the  singing,  Aratov 
had  been  watching  Clara's  face.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  her  eyes,  through  the  drooping  eye- 
lashes, were  again  turned  upon  him  ;  but  he 
was  especially  struck  by  the  immobility  of  the 
face,  the  forehead,  the  eyebrows  ;  and  only  at 
her  outburst  of  passion  he  caught  through  the 
hardly-parted  lips  the  warm  gleam  of  a  close 

22 


CLARA   MILITCH 

row  of  white  teeth.  Kupfer  came  up  to 
him. 

'  Well,  my  dear  boy,  what  do  you  think  of 
her  ? '  he  asked,  beaming  all  over  with  satis- 
faction. 

*  It 's  a  fine  voice,'  replied  Aratov  ;  *  but  she 
doesn't  know  how  to  sing  yet ;  she 's  no  real 
musical  knowledge.'  (Why  he  said  this,  and 
what  conception  he  had  himself  of  'musical 
knowledge,'  the  Lord  only  knows !) 

Kupfer  was  surprised.  'No  musical  know- 
ledge,' he  repeated  slowly.  .  .  .  'Well,  as  to 
that  .  .  .  she  can  acquire  that.  But  what 
soul !  Wait  a  bit,  though  ;  you  shall  hear  her 
in  Tatiana's  letter.' 

He  hurried  away  from  Aratov,  while  the 
latter  said  to  himself,  '  Soul !  with  that  immov- 
able face ! '  He  thought  that  she  moved  and 
held  herself  like  one  hypnotised,  like  a  som- 
nambulist. And  at  the  same  time  she  was 
unmistakably  .  .  .  yes  !  unmistakably  looking 
at  him. 

Meanwhile  the  matinee  went  on.  The  fat 
man  in  spectacles  appeared  again ;  in  spite  of 
his  serious  exterior,  he  fancied  himself  a  comic 
actor,  and  recited  a  scene  from  Gogol,  this  time 
without  eliciting  a  single  token  of  approbation. 
There  was  another  glimpse  of  the  flute-player ; 
another  thunder-clap  from  the  pianist ;  a  boy  of 
23 


DREAM   TALES 

twelve,  frizzed  and  pomaded,  but  with  tear- 
stains  on  his  cheeks,  thrummed  some  variations 
on  a  fiddle.  What  seemed  strange  was  that  in 
the  intervals  of  the  reading  and  music,  from  the 
performers'  room,  sounds  were  heard  from  time 
to  time  of  a  French  horn  ;  and  yet  this  instru- 
ment never  was  brought  into  requisition.  In 
the  sequel  it  appeared  that  the  amateur,  who 
had  been  invited  to  perform  on  it,  had  lost 
courage  at  the  moment  of  facing  the  public. 
At  last  Clara  Militch  made  her  appearance 
again. 

She  held  a  volume  of  Pushkin  in  her  hand  ; 
she  did  not,  however,  glance  at  it  once  during 
her  recitation.  .  .  .  She  was  obviously  nervous, 
the  little  book  shook  slightly  in  her  fingers. 
Aratov  observed  also  the  expression  of  weari- 
ness which  now  overspread  all  her  stem  features. 
The  first  line, '  I  write  to  you  .  ,  .  what  more  ?  * 
she  uttered  exceedingly  simply,  almost  naYvely, 
and  with  a  naive,  genuine,  helpless  gesture  held 
both  hands  out  before  her.  Then  she  began  to 
hurry  a  little ;  but  from  the  beginning  of  the 
lines  :  '  Another !  no  1  To  no  one  in  the  whole 
world  I  have  given  my  heart ! '  she  mastered 
her  powers,  gained  fire  ;  and  when  she  came  to 
the  words,  'My  whole  life  has  but  been  a 
pledge  of  a  meeting  true  with  thee,'  her  hitherto 
thick  voice  rang  out  boldly  and  enthusiastically, 

24 


CLARA  MILITCH 

while  her  eyes  just  as  boldly  and  directly 
fastened  upon  Aratov.  She  went  on  with  the 
same  fervour,  and  only  towards  the  end  her 
voice  dropped  again  ;  and  in  it,  and  in  her  face, 
the  same  weariness  was  reflected  again.  The 
last  four  lines  she  completely  *  murdered,'  as  it 
is  called ;  the  volume  of  Pushkin  suddenly  slid 
out  of  her  hand,  and  she  hastily  withdrew. 

The  audience  fell  to  applauding  desperately, 
encoring.  .  .  .  One  Little- Russian  divinity  stu- 
dent bellowed  in  so  deep  a  bass,  '  Mill-itch ! 
Mill-itch  ! '  that  his  neighbour  civilly  and  sym- 
pathetically advised  him,  '  to  take  care  of  his 
voice,  it  would  be  the  making  of  a  protodeacon.' 
But  Aratov  at  once  rose  and  made  for  the 
door.  Kupfer  overtook  him.  . . .  '  I  say,  where 
are  you  off  to  ? '  he  called  ;  '  would  you  like 
me  to  present  you  to  Clara?'  'No,  thanks,' 
Aratov  returned  hurriedly,  and  he  went  home- 
wards almost  at  a  run. 


He  was  agitated  by  strange  sensations,  incom- 
prehensible to  himself  In  reality,  Clara's 
recitation,  too,  had  not  been  quite  to  his  taste 
.  .  .  though  he  could  not  quite  tell  why.      It 

25 


DREAM   TALES 

disturbed  him,  this  recitation  ;  it  struck  him  as 
crude  and  inharmonious.  ...  It  was  as  though 
it  broke  something  within  him,  forced  itself 
with  a  certain  violence  upon  him.  And  those 
fixed,  insistent,  almost  importunate  looks — 
what  were  they  for  ?  what  did  they  mean  ? 

Aratov's  modesty  did  not  for  one  instant 
admit  of  the  idea  that  he  might  have  made  an 
impression  on  this  strange  girl,  that  he  might 
have  inspired  in  her  a  sentiment  akin  to  love, 
to  passion !  .  .  .  And  indeed,  he  himself  had 
formed  a  totally  different  conception  of  the 
still  unknown  woman,  the  girl  to  whom  he  was 
to  give  himself  wholly,  who  would  love  him,  be 
his  bride,  his  wife.  .  .  .  He  seldom  dwelt  on 
this  dream  —  in  spirit  as  in  body  he  was 
virginal ;  but  the  pure  image  that  arose  at 
such  times  in  his  fancy  was  inspired  by  a  very 
different  figure,  the  figure  of  his  dead  mother, 
whom  he  scarcely  remembered,  but  whose 
portrait  he  treasured  as  a  sacred  relic.  The 
portrait  was  a  water-colour,  painted  rather  un- 
skilfully by  a  lady  who  had  been  a  neighbour 
of  hers  ;  but  the  likeness,  as  every  one  declared, 
was  a  striking  one.  Just  such  a  tender  profile, 
just  such  kind,  clear  eyes  and  silken  hair,  just 
such  a  smile  and  pure  expression,  was  the 
woman,  the  girl,  to  have,  for  whom  as  yet  he 
scarcely  dared  to  hope.  .  .  . 
26 


CLARA  MILITCH 

t 

But  this  swarthy,  dark-skinned  creature,  with 

coarse  hair,  dark  eyebrows,  and  a  tiny  moustache 
on  her  upper  lip,  she  was  certainly  a  wicked, 
giddy  .  .  .  '  gipsy '  (Aratov  could  not  imagine 
a  harsher  appellation) — what  was  she  to  him  ? 

And  yet  Aratov  could  not  succeed  in  getting 
out  of  his  head  this  dark-skinned  gipsy,  whose 
singing  and  reading  and  very  appearance  were 
displeasing  to  him.  He  was  puzzled,  he  was 
angry  with  himself.  Not  long  before  he  had 
read  Sir  Walter  Scott's  novel,  St.  Ronan's  Well 
(there  was  a  complete  edition  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  works  in  the  library  of  his  father,  who 
had  regarded  the  English  novelist  with  esteem 
as  a  serious,  almost  a  scientific,  writer).  The 
heroine  of  that  novel  is  called  Clara  Mowbray. 
A  poet  who  flourished  somewhere  about  1840, 
Krasov,  wrote  a  poem  on  her,  ending  with  the 
words : 

•  Unhappy  Clara  !  poor  frantic  Clara  1 
Unhappy  Clara  Mowbray  I ' 

Aratov  knew  this  poem  also.  ,  .  ,  And  now 
these  words  were  incessantly  haunting  his 
memory.  ...  *  Unhappy  Clara !  Poor,  frantic 
Clara ! '  .  .  ,  (This  was  why  he  had  been  so 
surprised  when  Kupfer  told  him  the  name  of 
Clara  Militch.) 

Platosha  herself  noticed,  not  a  change  exactly 
in  Yasha's  temper — no  change  in  reality  took 

27 


DREAM  TALES 

place  in  it — but  something  unsatisfactory  in 
his  looks  and  in  his  words.  She  cautiously 
questioned  him  about  the  literary  matinee  at 
which  he  had  been  present ;  muttered,  sighed, 
looked  at  him  from  in  front,  from  the  side,  from 
behind ;  and  suddenly  clapping  her  hands  on 
her  thighs,  she  exclaimed  :  '  To  be  sure,  Yasha  ; 
I  see  what  it  is ! ' 

'  Why  ?  what  ? '  Aratov  queried. 

'  You  've  met  for  certain  at  that  matinee  one 
of  those  long-tailed  creatures' — this  was  how 
Platonida  Ivanovna  always  spoke  of  all  fashion- 
ably-dressed ladies  of  the  period — '  with  a 
pretty  dolly  face ;  and  she  goes  prinking  this 
way  .  .  .  and  pluming  that  way' — Platonida 
presented  these  fancied  manoeuvres  in  mimicry 
— *  and  making  saucers  like  this  with  her  eyes ' 
— and  she  drew  big,  round  circles  in  the  air 
with  her  forefinger — 'You're  not  used  to  that 
sort  of  thing.  So  you  fancied  .  .  .  but  that 
means  nothing,  Yasha  .  .  .  no-o-thing  at  all ! 
Drink  a  cup  of  posset  at  night  ...  it  '11  pass 
off!  .  .  .  Lord,  succour  usl' 

Platosha  ceased  speaking,  and  left  the  room. 
.  .  .  She  had  hardly  ever  uttered  such  a  long 
and  animated  speech  in  her  life.  .  .  .  While 
Aratov  thought,  'Auntie's  right,  I  dare  say. 
.  .  .  I'm  not  used  to  it ;  that's  all  .  .  .  ' — it 
actually  was  the  first  time  his  attention  had 

28 


CLARA   MILITCII 

ever  happened  to  be  drawn  to  a  person  of  the 
female  sex  ...  at  least  he  had  never  noticed 
it  before — '  I  mustn't  give  way  to  it.' 

And  he  set  to  work  on  his  books,  and  at 
night  drank  some  lime-flower  tea ;  and  posi- 
tively slept  well  that  night,  and  had  no  dreams. 
The  next  morning  he  took  up  his  photography 
again  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  .  .  . 

But  towards  evening  his  spiritual  repose  was 
ajjain  disturbed. 


VI 


And  this  is  what  happened.  A  messenger 
brought  him  a  note,  written  in  a  large  irregular 
woman's  hand,  and  containing  the  following 
lines : 

'  If  you  guess  who  it  is  writes  to  you,  and  if 
it  is  not  a  bore  to  you,  come  to-morrow  after 
dinner  to  the  Tversky  boulevard — about  five 
o'clock — and  wait.  You  shall  not  be  kept  long. 
But  it  is  very  important.     Do  come.' 

There  was  no  signature.  Aratov  at  once 
guessed  who  was  his  correspondent,  and  this 
was  just  what  disturbed  him.  '  What  folly,'  he 
said,  almost  aloud ;  '  this  is  too  much.  Of 
course  I  shan't  go.'  He  sent,  however,  for  the 
29 


DREAM   TALES 

messenger,  and  from  him  learnt  nothing  but 
that  the  note  had  been  handed  him  by  a  maid- 
servant in  the  street.  Dismissing  him,  Aratov 
read  the  letter  through  and  flung  it  on  the 
ground.  .  .  .  But,  after  a  little  while,  he  picked 
it  up  and  read  it  again  :  a  second  time  he  cried, 
*  Folly  I ' — he  did  not,  however,  throw  the  note 
on  the  floor  again,  but  put  it  in  a  drawer.  Aratov 
took  up  his  ordinary  occupations,  first  one  and 
then  another ;  but  nothing  he  did  was  success- 
ful or  satisfactory.  He  suddenly  realised  that 
he  was  eagerly  expecting  Kupfer!  Did  he 
want  to  question  him,  or  perhaps  even  to  con- 
fide in  him  ?  .  .  .  But  Kupfer  did  not  make  his 
appearance.  Then  Aratov  took  down  Pushkin, 
read  Tatiana's  letter,  and  convinced  himself 
again  that  the  *  gipsy  girl '  had  not  in  the  least 
understood  the  real  force  of  the  letter.  And 
that  donkey  Kupfer  shouts:  Rachel!  Viardot! 
Then  he  went  to  his  piano,  as  it  seemed,  uncon- 
sciously opened  it,  and  tried  to  pick  out  by  ear 
the  melody  of  Tchaykovsky's  song ;  but  he 
slammed  it  to  again  directly  in  vexation,  and 
went  up  to  his  aunt  to  her  special  room,  which 
was  for  ever  baking  hot,  smelled  of  mint,  sage, 
and  other  medicinal  herbs,  and  was  littered  up 
with  such  a  multitude  of  rugs,  side-tables,  stools, 
cushions,  and  padded  furniture  of  all  sorts,  that 
any  one  unused  to  it  would  have  found  it  diffi- 
30 


CLARA   MILITCH 

cult  to  turn  round  and  oppressive  to  breathe  in 
it  Platonida  Ivanovna  was  sitting  at  the  win- 
dow, her  knitting  in  her  hands  (she  was  knitting 
her  darUng  Yasha  a  comforter,  the  thirty-eighth 
she  had  made  him  in  the  course  of  his  life !), 
and  was  much  astonished  to  see  him.  Aratov 
rarely  went  up  to  her,  and  if  he  wanted  any- 
thing, used  always  to  call,  in  his  delicate  voice, 
from  his  study  :  *  Aunt  Platosha ! '  However, 
she  made  him  sit  down,  and  sat  all  alert,  in 
expectation  of  his  first  words,  watching  him 
through  her  spectacles  with  one  eye,  over  them 
with  the  other.  She  did  not  inquire  after  his 
health  nor  offer  him  tea,  as  she  saw  he  had  not 
come  for  that.  Aratov  was  a  little  disconcerted 
.  .  .  then  he  began  to  talk  .  .  .  talked  of  his 
mother,  of  how  she  had  lived  with  his  father 
and  how  his  father  had  got  to  know  her.  All 
this  he  knew  very  well  .  .  .  but  it  was  just 
what  he  wanted  to  talk  about  Unluckily  for 
him,  Platosha  did  not  know  how  to  keep  up  a 
conversation  at  all;  she  gave  him  very  brief 
replies,  as  though  she  suspected  that  was  not 
what  Yasha  had  come  for. 

•Eh!'  she  repeated,  hurriedly,  almost  irritably 
plying  her  knitting-needles.  'We  all  know: 
your  mother  was  a  darling  ...  a  darling  that 
she  was.  .  .  .  And  your  father  loved  her  as  a 
husband  should,  truly  and  faithfully  even  in  her 
31 


DREAM  TALES 

grave  ;  and  he  never  loved  any  other  woman ' : 
she  added,  raising  her  voice  and  taking  off  her 
spectacles. 

'And  was  she  of  a  retiring  disposition?* 
Aratov  inquired,  after  a  short  silence. 

'  Retiring !  to  be  sure  she  was.  As  a  woman 
should  be.  Bold  ones  have  sprung  up  nowa- 
days.' 

'  And  were  there  no  bold  ones  in  your  time? ' 

*  There  were  in  our  time  too  ...  to  be  sure 
there  were !  But  who  were  they  ?  A  pack  of 
strumpets,  shameless  hussies.  Draggle-tails — 
for  ever  gadding  about  after  no  good.  .  .  .  What 
do  they  care.^  It's  little  they  take  to  heart. 
If  some  poor  fool  comes  in  their  way,  they 
pounce  on  him.  But  sensible  folk  looked  down 
on  them.  Did  you  ever  see,  pray,  the  like  of 
such  in  our  house  ? ' 

Aratov  made  no  reply,  and  went  back  to  his 
study.  Platonida  Ivanovna  looked  after  him, 
shook  her  head,  put  on  her  spectacles  again, 
and  again  took  up  her  comforter  .  .  .  but  more 
than  once  sank  into  thought,  and  let  her 
knitting-needles  fall  on  her  knees. 

Aratov  up  till  very  night  kept  telling  him- 
self, no !  no !  but  with  the  same  irritation,  the 
same  exasperation,  he  fell  again  into  musing  on 
the  note,  on  the  *  gipsy  girl,'  on  the  appointed 
meeting,  to  which  he  would  certainly  not  go ! 
3* 


CLARA   MILITCH 

And  at  night  she  gave  him  no  rest.  He  was 
continually  haunted  by  her  eyes — at  one  time 
half-closed,  at  another  wide  open — and  their 
persistent  gaze  fixed  straight  upon  him,  and 
those  motionless  features  with  their  dominating 
expression.  .  .  . 

The  next  morning  he  again,  for  some  reason, 
kept  expecting  Kupfer  ;  he  was  on  the  point  of 
writing  a  note  to  him  .  .  .  but  did  nothing, 
however,  .  .  .  and  spent  most  of  the  time 
walking  up  and  down  his  room.  He  never  for 
one  instant  admitted  to  himself  even  the  idea 
of  going  to  this  idiotic  rendezvous  .  .  .  and 
at  half-past  three,  after  a  hastily  swallowed 
dinner,  suddenly  throwing  on  his  cloak  and 
thrusting  his  cap  on  his  head,  he  dashed  out 
into  the  street,  unseen  by  his  aunt,  and  turned 
towards  the  Tversky  boulevard. 


vn 

Aratov  found  few  people  walking  in  it.  The 
weather  was  damp  and  rather  cold.  He  tried 
not  to  reflect  on  what  he  was  doing,  to  force 
himself  to  turn  his  attention  to  every  object 
that  presented  itself,  and,  as  it  were,  persuaded 
himself  that  he  had  simply  come  out  for  a  walk 
33  C 


DREAM   TALES 

like  the  other  people  passing  to  and  fro.  .  .  , 
The  letter  of  the  day  before  was  in  his  breast- 
pocket, and  he  was  conscious  all  the  while  of 
its  presence  there.  He  walked  twice  up  and 
down  the  boulevard,  scrutinised  sharply  every 
feminine  figure  that  came  near  him — and  his 
heart  throbbed.  .  .  .  He  felt  tired  and  sat 
down  on  a  bench.  And  suddenly  the  thought 
struck  him:  'What  if  that  letter  was  not  written 
by  her,  but  to  some  one  else  by  some  other 
woman?'  In  reality  this  should  have  been  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  him  .  .  .  and  yet  he 
had  to  admit  to  himself  that  he  did  not  want 
this  to  be  so.  *  That  would  be  too  silly,'  he 
thought,  '  even  sillier  than  this ! '  A  nervous 
unrest  began  to  gain  possession  of  him  ;  he 
began  to  shiver — not  outwardly,  but  inwardly. 
He  several  times  took  his  watch  out  of  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  looked  at  the  face,  put  it  back, 
and  each  time  forgot  how  many  minutes  it  was 
to  five.  He  fancied  that  every  passer-by  looked 
at  him  in  a  peculiar  way,  with  a  sort  of  sarcastic 
astonishment  and  curiosity.  A  wretched  little 
dog  ran  up,  sniffed  at  his  legs,  and  began 
wagging  its  tail.  He  threatened  it  angrily. 
He  was  particularly  annoyed  by  a  factory  lad 
in  a  greasy  smock,  who  seated  himself  on  a 
seat  on  the  other  side  of  the  boulevard,  and 
by  turns  whistling,  scratching  himself,  and 
34 


CLARA   MILITCH 

swinging  his  feet  in  enormous  tattered  boots, 
persistently  stared  at  him.  '  And  his  master,' 
thought  Aratov,  '  is  waiting  for  him,  no  doubt, 
while  he,  lazy  scamp,  is  kicking  up  his  heels 
here.  .  .  .' 

But  at  that  very  instant  he  felt  that  some  one 
had  come  up  and  was  standing  close  behind 
him  .  .  .  there  was  a  breath  of  something  warm 
from  behind.  .  .  . 

He  looked  round.  .  .  .  She ! 

He  knew  her  at  once,  though  a  thick,  dark 
blue  veil  hid  her  features.  He  instantaneously 
leapt  up  from  the  seat,  but  stopped  short,  and 
could  not  utter  a  word.  She  too  was  silent. 
He  felt  great  embarrassment ;  but  her  em- 
barrassment was  no  less.  Aratov,  even  through 
the  veil,  could  not  help  noticing  how  deadly 
pale  she  had  turned.  Yet  she  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

'  Thanks,'  she  began  in  an  unsteady  voice, 
'thanks  for  coming.  I  did  not  expect  .  .  .' 
She  turned  a  little  away  and  walked  along  the 
boulevard.     Aratov  walked  after  her. 

'You  have,  perhaps,  thought  ill  of  me,'  she 
went  on,  without  turning  her  head ;  '  indeed, 
my  conduct  is  very  strange.  .  .  .  But  I  had 
heard  so  much  about  you  .  .  .  but  no !  I  .  .  . 
that  was  not  the  reason.  ...  If  only  you  knew 
.  .  .  There  was  so  much  I  wanted  to  tell  you, 
35 


DREAM  TALES 

my  God !  .  .  .  But  how  to  do  it  .  .  .  how  to 
do  it ! ' 

Aratov  was  walking  by  her  side,  a  little 
behind  her  ;  he  could  not  see  her  face  ;  he  saw 
only  her  hat  and  part  of  her  veil  .  .  .  and  her 
long  black  shabby  cape.  All  his  irritation,  both 
with  her  and  with  himself,  suddenly  came  back 
to  him  ;  all  the  absurdity,  the  awkwardness  of 
this  interview,  these  explanations  between  per- 
fect strangers  in  a  public  promenade,  suddenly 
struck  him. 

'  I  have  come  on  your  invitation,'  he  began  in 
his  turn.  '  I  have  come,  my  dear  madam  '  (her 
shoulders  gave  a  faint  twitch,  she  turned  off 
into  a  side  passage,  he  followed  her),  '  simply  to 
clear  up,  to  discover  to  what  strange  misunder- 
standing it  is  due  that  you  are  pleased  to 
address  me,  a  stranger  to  you  .  .  .  who  .  .  . 
only  guessed^  to  use  your  expression  in  your 
letter,  that  it  was  you  writing  to  him  .  .  .  guessed 
it  because  during  that  literary  matinee,  you  saw 
fit  to  pay  him  such  .  .  .  such  obvious  attention,' 

All  this  little  speech  was  delivered  by  Aratov 
in  that  ringing  but  unsteady  voice  in  which 
very  young  people  answer  at  examinations  on  a 
subject  in  which  they  are  well  prepared.  .  .  . 
He  was  angry;  he  was  furious.  ...  It  was  just 
this  fury  which  loosened  his  ordinarily  not  very 
ready  tongue. 

36 


CLARA   MILITCH 

She  still  went  on  along  the  walk  with 
rather  slower  steps.  .  .  .  Aratov,  as  before, 
walked  after  her,  and  as  before  saw  only  the 
old  cape  and  the  hat,  also  not  a  very  new  one. 
His  vanity  suffered  at  the  idea  that  she  must 
now  be  thinking :  *  I  had  only  to  make  a  sign 
— and  he  rushed  at  once  ! ' 

Aratov  was  silent  ...  he  expected  her  to 
answer  him  ;  but  she  did  not  utter  a  word. 

'I  am  ready  to  listen  to  you,'  he  began  again, 
'and  shall  be  very  glad  if  I  can  be  of  use  to 
you  in  any  way  .  .  .  though  I  am,  I  confess, 
surprised  .  .  .  considering  the  retired  life  I 
lead.  .  .  .' 

At  these  last  words  of  his,  Clara  suddenly 
turned  to  him,  and  he  beheld  such  a  terrified, 
such  a  deeply-wounded  face,  with  such  large 
bright  tears  in  the  eyes,  such  a  pained  expres- 
sion about  the  parted  lips,  and  this  face  was 
so  lovely,  that  he  involuntarily  faltered,  and 
himself  felt  something  akin  to  terror  and  pity 
and  softening. 

'  Ah,  why  .  .  .  why  are  you  like  that  ? '  she 
said,  with  an  irresistibly  genuine  and  truthful 
force,  and  how  movingly  her  voice  rang  out ! 
*  Could  my  turning  to  you  be  offensive  to  you  ? 
...  is  it  possible  you  have  understood  nothing  ? 
.  .  .  Ah,  yes !  you  have  understood  nothing, 
you  did  not  understand  what  I  said  to  you, 
37 


DREAM   TALES 

God  knows  what  you  have  been  imagining 
about  me,  you  have  not  even  dreamed  what  it 
cost  me — to  write  to  you  !  .  .  .  You  thought  of 
nothing  but  yourself,  your  own  dignity,  your 
peace  of  mind !  .  .  .  But  is  it  likely  I '  .  .  . 
(she  squeezed  her  hands  raised  to  her  lips  so 
hard,  that  the  fingers  gave  a  distinct  crack).  .  .  . 
'  As  though  I  made  any  sort  of  demands  of  you, 
as  though  explanations  were  necessary  first.  .  . . 
"  My  dear  madam,  ...  I  am,  I  confess,  sur- 
prised, ...  if  I  can  be  of  any  use  "...  Ah  !  I 
am  mad! — I  was  mistaken  in  you — in  your  face! 
.  .  .  when  I  saw  you  the  first  time.  .  .  !  Here 
.  .  .  you  stand.  ...  If  only  one  word.  What, 
not  one  word  ? ' 

She  ceased.  .  .  .  Her  face  suddenly  flushed, 
and  as  suddenly  took  a  wrathful  and  insolent 
expression.  '  Mercy  !  how  idiotic  this  is  ! '  she 
cried  suddenly,  with  a  shrill  laugh.  How 
idiotic  our  meeting  is  !  What  a  fool  I  am  I  .  .  . 
and  you  too.  .  .  .  Ugh ! ' 

She  gave  a  contemptuous  wave  of  her  hand, 
as  though  motioning  him  out  of  her  road,  and 
passing  him,  ran  quickly  out  of  the  boulevard, 
and  vanished. 

The  gesture  of  her  hand,  the  insulting  laugh, 

and  the  last  exclamation,  at  once  carried  Aratov 

back  to  his  first  frame  of  mind,  and  stifled  the 

feeling  that  had  sprung  up  in  his  heart  when 

38 


CLARA   MILITCH 

She  turned  to  him  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  He 
was  angry  again,  and  almost  shouted  after  the 
retreating  girl :  '  You  may  make  a  good  actress, 
but  why  did  you  think  fit  to  play  off  this  farce 
on  me?' 

He  returned  home  with  long  strides,  and 
though  he  still  felt  anger  and  indignation  all 
the  way,  yet  across  these  evil,  malignant  feel- 
ings, unconsciously,  the  memory  forced  itself 
of  the  exquisite  face  he  had  seen  for  a  single 
moment  only.  .  .  .  He  even  put  himself  the 
question,  *  Why  did  I  not  answer  her  when 
she  asked  of  me  only  a  word  ?  I  had  not 
time,'  he  thought.  *  She  did  not  let  me  utter 
the  word  ...  and  what  word  could  I  have 
uttered  ? ' 

But  he  shook  his  head  at  once,  and  murmured 
reproachfully,  *  Actress  ! ' 

And  again,  at  the  same  time,  the  vanity 
of  the  inexperienced  nervous  youth,  at  first 
wounded,  was  now,  as  it  were,  flattered  at  having 
any  way  inspired  such  a  passion.  .  .  . 

'Though  by  now,'  he  pursued  his  reflections, 
'  it 's  all  over,  of  course.  ...  I  must  have  seemed 
absurd  to  her.'  .  .  . 

This  idea  was  disagreeable  to  him,  and  again 

he  was  angry  .  .  .  both  with  her  .  .  .  and  with 

himself.    On  reaching  home,  he  shut  himself  up 

in  his  study.     He  did  not  want  to  see  Platosha. 

39 


DREAM   TALES 

The  good  old  lady  came  twice  tc  his  locked 
door,  put  her  ear  to  the  keyhole,  and  only  sighed 
and  murmured  her  prayer. 

'  It  has  begun ! '  she  thought.  .  ,  .  '  And  he 
only  five  -  and  -  twenty !  Ah,  it 's  early,  it 's 
early  1 ' 


VIII 

All  the  following  day  Aratov  was  in  very  low 
spirits.  '  What  is  it,  Yasha  ? '  Platonida  Ivan- 
ovna  said  to  him :  *  you  seem  somehow  all 
loose  ends  to-day!'  ...  In  her  own  peculiar 
idiom  the  old  lady's  expression  described  fairly 
accurately  Aratov's  mental  condition.  He 
could  not  work  and  he  did  not  know  himself 
what  he  wanted.  At  one  time  he  was  eagerly 
on  the  watch  for  Kupfer,  again  he  suspected 
that  it  was  from  Kupfer  that  Clara  had  got  his 
address  .  .  .  and  from  where  else  could  she  '  have 
heard  so  much  about  him '  ?  Then  he  wondered  : 
was  it  possible  his  acquaintance  with  her  was 
to  end  like  this  ?  Then  he  fancied  she  would 
write  to  him  again ;  then  he  asked  himself 
whether  he  ought  not  to  write  her  a  letter, 
explaining  everything,  since  he  did  not  at  all 
like  leaving  an  unfavourable  impression  of  him- 
self. .  .  .  But  exactly  what  to  explain  ?  Then  he 
40 


CLARA   MILITCH 

stirred  up  in  himself  almost  a  feeling  of  repul- 
sion for  her,  for  her  insistence,  her  imper- 
tinence ;  and  then  again  he  saw  that  unutterably 
touching  face  and  heard  an  irresistible  voice  ; 
then  he  recalled  her  singing,  her  recitation — 
and  could  not  be  sure  whether  he  had  been 
right  in  his  wholesale  condemnation  of  it.  In 
fact,  he  was  all  loose  ends !  At  last  he  was 
heartily  sick  of  it,  and  resolved  to  keep  a  firm 
hand  over  himself,  as  it  is  called,  and  to  oblite- 
rate the  whole  incident,  as  it  was  unmistakably 
hindering  his  studies  and  destroying  his  peace 
of  mind.  It  turned  out  not  so  easy  to  carry 
out  this  resolution  .  .  .  more  than  a  week 
passed  by  before  he  got  back  into  his  old  accus- 
tomed groove.  Luckily  Kupfer  did  not  turn 
up  at  all ;  he  was  in  fact  out  of  Moscow.  Not 
long  before  the  incident,  Aratov  had  begun  to 
work  at  painting  in  connection  with  his  photo- 
graphic plans ;  he  set  to  work  upon  it  now  with 
redoubled  zest. 

So,  imperceptibly,  with  a  few  (to  use  the 
doctors'  expression)  '  symptoms  of  relapse,' 
manifested,  for  instance,  in  his  once  almost 
deciding  to  call  upon  the  princess,  two  months 
passed  .  .  .  then  three  months  .  .  .  and  Aratov 
was  the  old  Aratov  again.  Only  somewhere 
down  below,  under  the  surface  of  his  life,  some- 
thing like  a  dark  and  burdensome  secret  dogged 


DREAM   TALES 

him  wherever  he  went.  So  a  great  fish  just 
caught  on  the  hook,  but  not  yet  drawn  up,  will 
swim  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  stream  under  the 
very  boat  where  the  angler  sits  with  a  stout 
rod  in  his  hand. 

And  one  day,  skimming  through  a  not 
quite  new  number  of  the  Moscow  Gazette, 
Aratov  lighted  upon  the  following  paragraph : 

*  With  the  greatest  regret,'  wrote  some  local 
contributor  from  Kazan,  '  we  must  add  to  our 
dramatic  record  the  news  of  the  sudden  death 
of  our  gifted  actress  Clara  Militch,  who  had 
succeeded  during  the  brief  period  of  her 
engagement  in  becoming  a  favourite  of  our  dis- 
criminating public.  Our  regret  is  the  more 
poignant  from  the  fact  that  Miss  Militch  by  her 
own  act  cut  short  her  young  life,  so  full  of 
promise,  by  means  of  poison.  And  this  dread- 
ful deed  was  the  more  awful  through  the 
talented  actress  taking  the  fatal  drug  in  the 
theatre  itself.  She  had  scarcely  been  taken 
home  when  to  the  universal  grief,  she  expired. 
There  is  a  rumour  in  the  town  that  an  unfor- 
tunate love  affair  drove  her  to  this  terrible  act' 

Aratov  slowly  laid  the  paper  on  the  table. 
In  outward  appearance  he  remained  perfectly 
calm  .  .  .  but  at  once  something  seemed  to 
strike  him  a  blow  in  the  chest  and  the  head — 
and  slowly  the  shock  passed  on  through  all  his 
42 


CLARA   MILITCH 

limbs.  He  got  up,  stood  still  on  the  spot,  and 
sat  down  again,  again  read  through  the  para- 
graph. Then  he  got  up  again,  lay  down  on 
the  bed,  and  clasping  his  hands  behind,  stared 
a  long  while  at  the  wall,  as  though  dazed.  By 
degrees  the  wall  seemed  to  fade  away  .  .  . 
vanished  .  .  .  and  he  saw  facing  him  the  boule- 
vard under  the  grey  sky,  and  her  in  her  black 
cape  .  .  .  then  her  on  the  platform  .  .  .  saw  him- 
self even  close  by  her.  That  something  which 
had  given  him  such  a  violent  blow  in  the  chest 
at  the  first  instant,  began  mounting  now  .  .  . 
mounting  into  his  throat.  .  .  .  He  tried  to  clear 
his  throat ;  tried  to  call  some  one — but  his  voice 
failed  him — and,  to  his  own  astonishment,  tears 
rushed  in  torrents  from  his  eyes  .  .  .  what 
called  forth  these  tears  ?  Pity  ?  Remorse  ?  Or 
was  it  simply  his  nerves  could  not  stand  the 
sudden  shock  ? 

Why,  she  was  nothing  to  him?  was  she? 

'But,  perhaps,  it's  not  true  after  all,'  the 
thought  came  as  a  sudden  relief  to  him.  '  I 
must  find  out !  But  from  whom  ?  From  the 
princess  ?  No,  from  Kupfer  .  .  .  from  Kupfer  ? 
But  they  say  he 's  not  in  Moscow — no  matter,  I 
must  try  him  first ! ' 

With  these  reflections  in  his  head,  Aratov 
dressed  himself  in  haste,  called  a  cab  and  drove 
to  Kupfer's. 

41 


DREAM   TALEl 


IX 


Though  he  had  not  expected  to  find  him,  he 
found  him.  Kupfer  had,  as  a  fact,  been  away 
from  Moscow  for  some  time,  but  he  had  now 
been  back  a  week,  and  was  indeed  on  the  point 
of  setting  off  to  see  Aratov.  He  met  him  with 
his  usual  heartiness,  and  was  beginning  to 
make  some  sort  of  explanation  .  .  .  but  Aratov 
at  once  cut  him  short  with  the  impatient 
question,  *  Have  you  heard  it?     Is  it  true? ' 

*  Is  what  true  ? '  replied  Kupfer,  puzzled. 

*  About  Clara  Militch  ? ' 

Kupfer's  face  expressed  commiseration.  *  Yes, 
yes,  my  dear  boy,  it 's  true ;  she  poisoned  her- 
self !     Such  a  sad  thing ! ' 

Aratov  was  silent  for  a  while.  *  But  did  you 
read  it  in  the  paper  too?'  he  asked — '  or  perhaps 
you  have  been  in  Kazan  yourself?  ' 

*  I  have  been  in  Kazan,  yes  ;  the  princess  and 
I  accompanied  her  there.  She  came  out  on 
the  stage  there,  and  had  a  great  success.  But 
I  didn't  stay  up  to  the  time  of  the  catastrophe 
...  I  was  in  Yaroslav  at  the  time.' 

*  In  Yaroslav?' 

*  Yes — I  escorted  the  princess  there.  .  .  .  She 
is  living  now  at  Yaroslav.' 

44 


CLARA   MILITCH 

*  But  you  have  trustworthy  information  ?  * 

'  Trustworthy  ...  I  have  it  at  first-hand  ! — 
I  made  the  acquaintance  of  her  family  in 
Kazan.  But,  my  dear  boy  .  .  .  this  news  seems 
to  be  upsetting  you  ?  Why,  I  recollect  you 
didn't  care  for  Clara  at  one  time  ?  You  were 
wrong,  though !  She  was  a  marvellous  girl — 
only  what  a  temper!  I  was  terribly  broken- 
hearted about  her ! ' 

Aratov  did  not  utter  a  word,  he  dropped  into 
a  chair,  and  after  a  brief  pause,  asked  Kupfer 
to  tell  him  ...  he  stammered. 

'What?'  inquired  Kupfer. 

*Oh  .  .  everything,'  Aratov  answered 
brokenly,  'all  about  her  family  .  .  .  and  the 
rest  of  it.     Everything  you  know ! ' 

'  Why,  does  it  interest  you  ?  By  all  means  ! ' 
And  Kupfer,  whose  face  showed  no  traces  of 
his  having  been  so  terribly  broken-hearted 
about  Clara,  began  his  story. 

From  his  account  Aratov  learnt  that  Clara 
Militch's  real  name  was  Katerina  Milovidov ; 
that  her  father,  now  dead,  had  held  the  post  of 
drawing-master  in  a  school  in  Kazan,  had 
painted  bad  portraits  and  holy  pictures  of  the 
regulation  type ;  that  he  had  besides  had  the 
character  of  being  a  drunkard  and  a  domestic 
tyrant ;  that  he  had  left  behind  him,  first  a 
widow,  of  a  shopkeeper's  family,  a  quite  stupid 
45 


DREAM   TALES 

body,  a  character  straight  out  of  an  Ostrovsky 
comedy  ;  and  secondly,  a  daughter  much  older 
than  Clara  and  not  like  her — a  very  clever  girl, 
and  enthusiastic,  only  sickly,  a  remarkable  girl 
— and  very  advanced  in  her  ideas,  my  dear 
boy !  That  they  were  living,  the  widow  and 
daughter,  fairly  comfortably,  in  a  decent  little 
house,  obtained  by  the  sale  of  the  bad  portraits 
and  holy  pictures ;  that  Clara  ...  or  Katia,  if 
you  like,  from  her  childhood  up  impressed 
every  one  with  her  talent,  but  was  of  an  in- 
subordinate, capricious  temper,  and  used  to 
be  for  ever  quarrelling  with  her  father  ;  that 
having  an  inborn  passion  for  the  theatre,  at 
sixteen  she  had  run  away  from  her  parent's 
house  with  an  actress  .  .  .' 

'  With  an  actor  ? '  put  in  Aratov. 

*  No,  not  with  an  actor,  with  an  actress,  to 
whom  she  became  attached.  .  .  .  It 's  true  this 
actress  had  a  protector,  a  wealthy  gentleman, 
no  longer  young,  who  did  not  marry  her  simply 
because  he  happened  to  be  married — and 
indeed  I  fancy  the  actress  was  a  married 
woman.*  Furthermore  Kupfer  informed  Aratov 
that  Clara  had  even  before  her  coming  to 
Moscow  acted  and  sung  in  provincial  theatres, 
that,  having  lost  her  friend  the  actress — the 
gentleman,  too,  it  seemed,  had  died,  or  else  he 
had  made  it  up  with  his  wife — Kupfer  could 
46 


CLARA    MILITCH 

not  quite  remember  this — she  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  princess,  'that  heart  of 
gold,  whom  you,  my  dear  Yakov  Andreitch,'  the 
.  speaker  added  with  feeling,  '  were  incapable  of 
appreciating  properly ' ;  that  at  last  Clara  had 
been  offered  an  engagement  in  Kazan,  and 
that  she  had  accepted  it,  though  before  then 
she  used  to  declare  that  she  would  never  leave 
Moscow !  But  then  how  the  people  of  Kazan 
liked  her — it  was  really  astonishing  !  What- 
ever the  performance  was,  nothing  but  nose- 
gays and  presents  !  nosegays  and  presents ! 
A  wholesale  miller,  the  greatest  swell  in  the 
province,  had  even  presented  her  with  a  gold 
inkstand !  Kupfer  related  all  this  with  great 
animation,  without  giving  expression,  however, 
to  any  special  sentimentality,  and  interspersing 
his  narrative  with  the  questions,  '  What  is  it  to 
you  ?  '  and  '  Why  do  you  ask  ? '  when  Aratov, 
who  listened  to  him  with  devouring  attention, 
kept  asking  for  more  and  more  details.  All 
was  told  at  last,  and  Kupfer  was  silent, 
rewarding  himself  for  his  exertions  with  a 
cigar. 

'  And  why  did  she  take  poison  ? '  asked 
Aratov.     '  In  the  paper  it  was  stated  .  .  .' 

Kupfer  waved  his  hand.  'Well  .  .  .  that  I 
can't  say  ...  I  don't  know.  But  the  paper 
tells  a  lie.  Clara's  conduct  was  exemplary 
47 


DREAM  TALES 

...  no  love  affairs  of  any  kind.  .  .  ,  And 
indeed  how  should  there  be  with  her  pride  t 
She  was  proud — as  Satan  himself — and  un- 
approachable !  A  headstrong  creature  !  Hard 
as  rock!  You'll  hardly  believe  it — though  I 
knew  her  so  well — I  never  saw  a  tear  in  her 
eyes ! ' 

*  But  I  have,'  Aratov  thought  to  himself. 

'But  there's  one  thing,'  continued  Kupfer,  'of 
late  I  noticed  a  great  change  in  her :  she  grew 
so  dull,  so  silent,  for  hours  together  there  was 
no  getting  a  word  out  of  her.  I  asked  her  even, 
"  Has  any  one  offended  you,  Katerina  Semyon- 
ovna?"  For  I  knew  her  temper;  she  could 
never  swallow  an  affront !  But  she  was  silent, 
and  there  was  no  doing  anything  with  her ! 
Even  her  triumphs  on  the  stage  didn't  cheer  her 
up ;  bouquets  fairly  showered  on  her  .  .  .  but 
she  didn't  even  smile !  She  gave  one  look  at 
the  gold  inkstand — and  put  it  aside !  She  used 
to  complain  that  no  one  had  written  the  real 
part  for  her,  as  she  conceived  it.  And  her 
singing  she  'd  given  up  altogether.  It  was  my 
fault,  my  dear  boy !  .  .  .  I  told  her  that  you 
thought  she  'd  no  musical  knowledge.  But  for 
all  that  .  .  .  why  she  poisoned  herself — is 
incomprehensible!  And  the  way  she  did 
it!  .  .  .' 

'  In  what  part  had  she  the  greatest  success?* 
48 


CLARA   MILITCH 

.  .  Aratov  wanted  to  know  in  what  part  she 
had  appeared  for  the  last  time,  but  for  some 
reason  he  asked  a  different  question. 

'  In  Ostrovosky's  Gruna,  as  far  as  I  re- 
member. But  I  tell  you  again  she'd  no  love 
affairs !  You  may  be  sure  of  that  from  one 
thing.  She  lived  in  her  mother's  house.  .  .  . 
You  know  the  sort  of  shopkeeper's  houses : 
in  every  corner  a  holy  picture  and  a  little  lamp 
before  it,  a  deadly  stuffiness,  a  sour  smell, 
nothing  but  chairs  along  the  walls  in  the 
drawing-room,  a  geranium  in  the  window,  and 
if  a  visitor  drops  in,  the  mistress  sighs  and 
groans,  as  if  they  were  invaded  by  an  enemy. 
What  chance  is  there  for  gallantry  or  love- 
making  }  Sometimes  they  wouldn't  even  admit 
me.  Their  servant,  a  muscular  female,  in  a  red 
sarafan,  with  an  enormous  bust,  would  stand 
right  across  the  passage,  and  growl,  "Where 
are  you  coming  ?"  No,  I  positively  can't  under- 
stand why  she  poisoned  herself.  Sick  of  life,  I 
suppose,'  Kupfer  concluded  his  cogitations 
philosophically. 

Aratov  sat  with  downcast  head.  'Can  you 
give  me  the  address  of  that  house  in  Kazan  ? ' 
he  said  at  last. 

*  Yes ;  but  what  do  you  want  it  for  ?  Do 
you  want  to  write  a  letter  there  ?  * 

'  Perhaps.' 

49  O 


DREAM   TALES 

'Well,  you  know  best.  But  the  old  lady 
won't  answer,  for  she  can't  read  and  write. 
The  sister,  though,  perhaps  .  .  .  Oh,  the  sister 's 
a  clever  creature !  But  I  must  say  again,  I 
wonder  at  you,  my  dear  boy !  Such  indiffer- 
ence before  .  .  .  and  now  such  interest !  All 
this,  my  boy,  comes  from  too  much  solitude ! ' 

Aratov  made  no  reply,  and  went  away,  having 
provided  himself  with  the  Kazan  address. 

When  he  was  on  his  way  to  Kupfer's,  ex- 
citement, bewilderment,  expectation  had  been 
reflected  on  his  face.  .  .  .  Now  he  walked  with 
an  even  gait,  with  downcast  eyes,  and  hat  pulled 
over  his  brows  ;  almost  every  one  who  met  him 
sent  a  glance  of  curiosity  after  him  .  .  .  but  he 
did  not  observe  any  one  who  passed  ...  it  was 
not  as  on  the  Tversky  boulevard  ! 

'  Unhappy  Clara !  poor  frantic  Clara ! '  was 
echoing  in  his  soul. 


The  following  day  Aratov  spent,  however,  fairly 
quietly.  He  was  even  able  to  give  his  mind  to 
his  ordinary  occupations.  But  there  was  one 
thing:  both  during  his  work  and  during  his 
leisure  he  was  continually  thinking  of  Clara, 
50 


CLARA  MILITCII 

of  what  Kupfer  had  told  him  the  evening 
before.  It  is  true  that  his  meditations,  too, 
were  of  a  fairly  tranquil  character.  He  fancied 
that  this  strange  girl  interested  him  from  the 
psychological  point  of  view,  as  something  of 
the  nature  of  a  riddle,  the  solution  of  which 
was  worth  racking  his  brains  over.  '  Ran  away 
with  an  actress  living  as  a  kept  mistress,'  he 
pondered,  'put  herself  under  the  protection  of 
that  princess,  with  whom  she  seems  to  have 
lived — and  no  love  affairs}  It's  incredible! 
.  .  ,  Kupfer  talked  of  pride !  But  in  the  first 
place  we  know '  ( Aratov  ought  to  have  said  : 
we  have  read  in  books),  ...  'we  know  that 
pride  can  exist  side  by  side  with  levity  of  con- 
duct ;  and  secondly,  how  came  she,  if  she  were 
so  proud,  to  make  an  appointment  with  a  man 
who  might  treat  her  with  contempt  .  .  .  and 
did  treat  her  with  it  .  .  .  and  in  a  public  place, 
moreover  ...  in  a  boulevard  ! '  At  this  point 
Aratov  recalled  all  the  scene  in  the  boulevard, 
and  he  asked  himself,  Had  he  really  shown 
contempt  for  Clara  ?  *  No,'  he  decided,  .  .  . 
'  it  was  another  feeling  ...  a  feeling  of  doubt 
.  .  .  lack  of  confidence,  in  fact ! '  '  Unhappy 
Clara  ! '  was  again  ringing  in  his  head.  '  Yes, 
unhappy,'  he  decided  again.  .  .  .  '  That 's  the 
most  fitting  word.  And,  if  so,  I  was  unjust. 
She  said  truly  that  I  did  not  understand  her. 


DREAM   TALES 

A  pity !  Such  a  remarkable  creature,  perhaps, 
came  so  close  .  .  .  and  I  did  not  take  advan- 
tage of  it,  I  repulsed  her.  .  .  .  Well,  no  matter ! 
Life 's  all  before  me.  There  will  be,  very  likely, 
other  meetings,  perhaps  more  interesting ! 

'  But  on  what  grounds  did  she  fix  on  me  of 
all  the  world?'  He  glanced  into  a  looking- 
glass  by  which  he  was  passing.  '  What  is  there 
special  about  me  ?  I  'm  not  a  beauty,  am  I  ? 
My  face  ...  is  like  any  face.  .  .  .  She  was 
not  a  beauty  either,  though. 

*  Not  a  beauty  .  .  .  and  such  an  expressive 
face !  Immobile  .  .  .  and  yet  expressive ! 
I  never  met  such  a  face.  .  .  .  And  talent,  too, 
she  has  .  .  .  that  is,  she  had,  unmistakable. 
Untrained,  undeveloped,  even  coarse,  perhaps 
.  .  .  but  unmistakable  talent.  And  in  that 
case  I  was  unjust  to  her.'  Aratov  was  carried 
back  in  thought  to  the  literary  musical  matinee 
.  .  .  and  he  observed  to  himself  how  exceed- 
ingly clearly  he  recollected  every  word  she  had 
sung  or  recited,  every  intonation  of  her  voice. 
.  .  .  '  That  would  not  have  been  so  had  she 
been  without  talent.  And  now  it  is  all  in  the 
grave,  to  which  she  has  hastened  of  herself.  .  . . 
But  I  've  nothing  to  do  with  that  .  .  .  I  'm 
not  to  blame !  It  would  be  positively  ridiculous 
to  suppose  that  I  'm  to  blame.' 

It  again  occurred  to  Aratov  that  even  if  she 
52 


CLARA   MILITCH 

had  had  'anything  of  the  sort*  in  her  mind, 
his  behaviour  during  their  interview  must  have 
effectually  disillusioned  her.  .  .  .  'That  was 
why  she  laughed  so  cruelly,  too,  at  parting. 
Besides,  what  proof  is  there  that  she  took 
poison  because  of  unrequited  love?  That's 
only  the  newspaper  correspondents,  who 
ascribe  every  death  of  that  sort  to  unrequited 
love  !  People  of  a  character  like  Clara's  readily 
feel  life  repulsive  .  .  .  burdensome.  Yes, 
burdensome.  Kupfer  was  right ;  she  was 
simply  sick  of  life. 

'  In  spite  of  her  successes,  her  triumphs  ? ' 
Aratov  mused.  He  got  a  positive  pleasure 
from  the  psychological  analysis  to  which  he 
was  devoting  himself  Remote  till  now  from 
all  contact  with  women,  he  did  not  even  sus- 
pect all  the  significance  for  himself  of  this 
intense  realisation  of  a  woman's  soul. 

'  It  follows,'  he  pursued  his  meditations,  'that 
art  did  not  satisfy  her,  did  not  fill  the  void  in 
her  life.  Real  artists  exist  only  for  art,  for  the 
theatre.  .  .  .  Everything  else  is  pale  beside 
what  they  regard  as  their  vocation.  .  .  .  She 
was  a  dilettante.' 

At  this  point  Aratov  fell  to  pondering  again. 
'  No,  the  word  dilettante  did  not  accord  with 
that  face,  the  expression  of  that  face,  those 
eyes.  .  .  .* 

53 


DREAM   TALES 

And  Clara's  image  floated  again  before  him, 
with  eyes,  swimming  in  tears,  fixed  upon  him, 
with  clenched  hands  pressed  to  her  lips.  .  .  . 

*  Ah,  no,  no,'  he  muttered,  '  what 's  the  use  ? ' 

So  passed  the  whole  day.  At  dinner  Aratov 
talked  a  great  deal  with  Platosha,  questioned 
her  about  the  old  days,  which  she  remembered, 
but  described  very  badly,  as  she  had  so  few 
words  at  her  command,  and  except  her  dear 
Yasha,  had  scarcely  ever  noticed  anything  in 
her  life.  She  could  only  rejoice  that  he  was 
nice  and  good-humoured  to-day;  towards  even- 
ing Aratov  was  so  far  calm  that  he  played 
several  games  of  cards  with  his  aunt. 

So  passed  the  day  .  ,  ,  but  the  night  I 


XI 


It  began  well ;  he  soon  fell  asleep,  and  when 
his  aunt  went  into  him  on  tip-toe  to  make  the 
sign  of  the  cross  three  times  over  him  in  his 
sleep — she  did  so  every  night — he  lay  breathing 
as  quietly  as  a  child.  But  before  dawn  he  had 
a  dream. 

He  dreamed  he  was  on  a  bare  steppe,  strewn 
with  big  stones,  under  a  lowering  sky.    Among 
54 


CLARA   MILITCH 

the  stones  curved  a  little  path ;  he  walked 
along  it. 

Suddenly  there  rose  up  in  front  of  him  some- 
thing of  the  nature  of  a  thin  cloud.  He  looked 
steadily  at  it ;  the  cloud  turned  into  a  woman 
in  a  white  gown  with  a  bright  sash  round  her 
waist  She  was  hurrying  away  from  him.  He 
saw  neither  her  face  nor  her  hair  .  .  .  they  were 
covered  by  a  long  veil.  But  he  had  an  intense 
desire  to  overtake  her,  and  to  look  into  her 
face.  Only,  however  much  he  hastened,  she 
went  more  quickly  than  he. 

On  the  path  lay  a  broad  flat  stone,  like  a 
tombstone.  It  blocked  up  the  way.  The 
woman  stopped.  Aratov  ran  up  to  her ;  but 
yet  he  could  not  see  her  eyes  .  .  .  they  were 
shut.  Her  face  was  white,  white  as  snow  ;  her 
hands  hung  lifeless.     She  was  like  a  statue. 

Slowly,  without  bending  a  single  limb,  she 
fell  backwards,  and  sank  down  upon  the  tomb- 
stone. .  .  .  And  then  Aratov  lay  down  beside 
her,  stretched  out  straight  like  a  figure  on  a 
monument,  his  hands  folded  like  a  dead  man's. 

But  now  the  woman  suddenly  rose,  and 
went  away.  Aratov  tried  to  get  up  too  .  .  . 
but  he  could  neither  stir  nor  unclasp  his  hands, 
and  could  only  gaze  after  her  in  despair. 

Then  the  woman  suddenly  turned  round, 
and  he  saw  bright  living  eyes,  in  a  living  but 
SS 


DREAM   TALES 

unknown  face.  She  laughed,  she  waved  her 
hand  to  him  .  .  .  and  still  he  could  not  move. 

She  laughed  once  more,  and  quickly  retreated, 
merrily  nodding  her  head,  on  which  there  was 
a  crimson  wreath  of  tiny  roses. 

Aratov  tried  to  cry  out,  tried  to  throw  off 
this  awful  nightmare.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  all  was  darkness  around  .  .  .  and 
the  woman  came  back  to  him.  But  this  was 
not  the  unknown  statue  ...  it  was  Clara. 
She  stood  before  him,  crossed  her  arms,  and 
sternly  and  intently  looked  at  him.  Her  lips 
were  tightly  pressed  together,  but  Aratov 
fancied  he  heard  the  words, '  If  you  want  to 
know  what  I  am,  come  over  here  1  * 

'  Where  ? '  he  asked. 

*  Here !'  he  heard  the  wailing  answer.   '  Here  !* 

Aratov  woke  up. 

He  sat  up  in  bed,  lighted  the  candle  that 
stood  on  the  little  table  by  his  bedside — but 
did  not  get  up — and  sat  a  long  while,  chill  all 
over,  slowly  looking  about  him.  It  seemed  to 
him  as  if  something  had  happened  to  him  since 
he  went  to  bed  ;  that  something  had  taken 
possession  of  him  .  .  .  something  was  in  con- 
trol of  him.  '  But  is  it  possible  ? '  he  murmured 
unconsciously.  'Does  such  a  power  really 
exist  ? ' 

He  could  not  stay  in  his  bed.  He  quickly 
56 


CLARA  MILITCH 

dressed,  and  till  morning  he  was  pacing  up  and 
down  his  room.  And,  strange  to  say,  of  Clara 
he  never  thought  for  a  moment,  and  did  not 
think  of  her,  because  he  had  decided  to  go  next 
day  to  Kazan ! 

He  thought  only  of  the  journey,  of  how  to 
manage  it,  and  what  to  take  with  him,  and  how 
he  would  investigate  and  find  out  everything 
there,  and  would  set  his  mind  at  rest.  '  If  I 
don't  go,'  he  reasoned  with  himself,  'why,  I 
shall  go  out  of  my  mind  ! '  He  was  afraid  of 
that,  afraid  of  his  nerves.  He  was  convinced 
that  when  once  he  had  seen  everything  there 
with  his  own  eyes,  every  obsession  would  vanish 
like  that  nightmare.  'And  it  will  be  a  week 
lost  over  the  journey,'  he  thought ;  '  what  is  a 
week?  else  I  shall  never  shake  it  off.' 

The  rising  sun  shone  into  his  room  ;  but  the 
light  of  day  did  not  drive  away  the  shadows  of 
the  night  that  lay  upon  him,  and  did  not  change 
his  resolution, 

Platosha  almost  had  a  fit  when  he  in- 
formed her  of  his  intention.  She  positively  sat 
down  on  the  ground  .  .  .  her  legs  gave  way 
beneath  her.  '  To  Kazan  ?  why  to  Kazan  ? ' 
she  murmured,  her  dim  eyes  round  with 
astonishment  She  would  not  have  been  more 
surprised  if  she  had  been  told  that  her  Yasha 
was  going  to  marry  the  baker  woman  next 
57 


DREAM  TALES 

door,  or  was  starting  for  America.  *  Will  you 
be  long  in  Kazan  ? '  'I  shall  be  back  in  a 
week,'  answered  Aratov,  standing  with  his  back 
half-turned  to  his  aunt,  who  was  still  sitting  on 
the  floor. 

Platonida  Ivanova  tried  to  protest  more, 
but  Aratov  answered  her  in  an  utterly  unex- 
pected and  unheard-of  way  :  *  I  'm  not  a  child,' 
he  shouted,  and  he  turned  pale  all  over,  his  lips 
trembled,  and  his  eyes  glittered  wrathfully. 
'  I  'm  twenty-six,  I  know  what  I  'm  about,  I  'm 
free  to  do  what  I  like !  I  suffer  no  one  .  .  . 
Give  me  the  money  for  the  journey,  pack  my 
box  with  my  clothes  and  linen  .  .  .  and  don't 
torture  me !  I  '11  be  back  in  a  week,  Platosha/ 
he  added,  in  a  somewhat  softer  tone. 

Platosha  got  up,  sighing  and  groaning,  and, 
without  further  protest,  crawled  to  her  room. 
Yasha  had  alarmed  her.  *  I  've  no  head  on  my 
shoulders,'  she  told  the  cook,  who  was  helping 
her  to  pack  Yasha's  things ;  '  no  head  at  all, 
but  a  hive  full  of  bees  all  a-buz  and  a-hum ! 
He's  going  off  to  Kazan,  my  good  soul,  to 
Ka-a-zan  ! '  The  cook,  who  had  observed  their 
dvornik  the  previous  evening  talking  for  a  long 
time  with  a  police  officer,  would  have  liked  to 
inform  her  mistress  of  this  circumstance,  but 
did  not  dare,  and  only  reflected,  '  To  Kazan  I 
if  only  it 's  nowhere  farther  still ! '  Platonida 
58 


CLARA   MILITCH 


Ivanovna  was  so  upset  that  she  did  not  even 
utter  her  usual  prayer.     '  In  such  a  calamity 
the  Lord  God  Himself  cannot  aid  us  ! ' 
The  same  day  Aratov  set  off  for  Kazan, 


XII 


He  had  no  sooner  reached  that  town  and  taken 
a  room  in  a  hotel  than  he  rushed  off  to  find  out 
the  house  of  the  widow  Milovidov.  During 
the  whole  journey  he  had  been  in  a  sort  of  be- 
numbed condition,  which  had  not,  however,  pre- 
vented him  from  taking  all  the  necessary  steps» 
cbaoging  at  Nizhni-Novgorod  from  the  railway 
to  tne  steamer,  getting  his  meals  at  the  stations 
etc.,  etc.  He  was  convinced  as  before  that 
t/iere  everything  would  be  solved  ;  and  there- 
fore he  drove  away  every  sort  of  memory  and 
reflection,  confining  himself  to  one  thing,  the 
mental  rehearsal  of  the  speech,  in  which  he 
would  lay  before  the  family  of  Clara  Militch 
the  real  cause  of  his  visit.  And  now  at  last  he 
reached  the  goal  of  his  efforts,  and  sent  up  his 
name.  He  was  admitted  .  .  .  with  perplexity 
and  alarm — still  he  was  admitted. 

The   house  of  the  widow  Milovidov  turned 
out  to  be  exactly  as  Kupfer  had  described  it ; 
59 


DREAM   TALES 

and  the  widow  herself  really  was  like  one  of  the 
tradesmen's  wives  in  Ostrovsky,  though  the 
widow  of  an  official ;  her  husband  had  held  his 
post  under  government.  Not  without  some  dif- 
ficulty, Aratov,  after  a  preliminary  apology  for 
his  boldness,  for  the  strangeness  of  his  visit,  de- 
livered the  speech  he  had  prepared,  explaining 
that  he  was  anxious  to  collect  all  the  informa- 
tion possible  about  the  gifted  artist  so  early  lost, 
that  he  was  not  led  to  this  by  idle  curiosity,  but 
by  profound  sympathy  for  her  talent,  of  which 
he  was  the  devoted  admirer  (he  said  that,  de- 
voted admirer !)  that,  in  fact,  it  would  be  a  sin 
to  leave  the  public  in  ignorance  of  what  it  had 
lost — and  why  its  hopes  were  not  realised. 
Madame  Milovidov  did  not  interrupt  Aratov ; 
she  did  not  understand  very  well  what  this  un- 
known visitor  was  saying  to  her,  and  merely 
opened  her  eyes  rather  wide  and  rolled  them 
upon  him,  thinking,  however,  that  he  had  a  quiet 
respectable  air,  was  well  dressed  .  .  .  and  not  a 
pickpocket  .  .  .  hadn't  come  to  beg. 

'You  are  speaking  of  Katia?'  she  inquired, 
directly  Aratov  was  silent. 

'  Yes  ...  of  your  daughter.' 

*  And  you  have  come  from  Moscow  for  this  ?  * 

*  Yes,  from  Moscow.' 

*  Only  on  this  account  ?  * 
^Yes.' 

60 


CLARA  MILITCH 

Madame  Milovidov  gave  herself  a  sudden 
shake.  'Why,  are  you  an  author?  Do  you 
write  for  the  newspapers  ? ' 

'  No,  I  'm  not  an  author — and  hitherto  I  have 
not  written  for  the  newspapers,' 

The  widow  bowed  her  head.  She  was 
puzzled. 

*Then,  I  suppose  ...  it's  from  your  own 
interest  in  the  matter  ? '  she  asked  suddenly. 
Aratov  could  not  find  an  answer  for  a  minute. 

'  Through  sympathy,  from  respect  for  talent,* 
he  said  at  last. 

The  word  '  respect '  pleased  Madame  Milovi- 
dov. *  Eh ! '  she  pronounced  with  a  sigh  .  .  . 
'  I  'm  her  mother,  any  way — and  terribly  I  'm 
grieved  for  her.  .  .  .  Such  a  calamity  all  of  a 
sudden  !  .  .  .  But  I  must  say  it :  a  crazy  girl  she 
always  was — and  what  a  way  to  meet  with  her 
end  !  Such  a  disgrace.  .  .  .  Only  fancy  what  it 
was  for  a  mother  ?  we  must  be  thankful  indeed 
that  they  gave  her  a  Christian  burial.  .  .  .' 
Madame  Milovidov  crossed  herself  'From  a 
child  up  she  minded  no  one — she  left  her 
parent's  house  .  .  .  and  at  last — sad  to  say ! — 
turned  actress  !  Every  one  knows  I  never  shut 
my  doors  upon  her  ;  I  loved  her,  to  be  sure  !  I 
was  her  mother,  any  way !  she  'd  no  need  to  live 
with  strangers  ...  or  to  go  begging!  .  .  .' 
Here  the  widow  shed  tears  ...  *  But  if  you, 
6i 


DREAM   TALES 

my  good  sir,'  she  began,  again  wiping  her  eyes 
with  the  ends  of  her  kerchief,  '  really  have  any 
idea  of  the  kind,  and  you  are  not  intending  any- 
thing dishonourable  to  us,  but  on  the  contrary, 
wish  to  show  us  respect,  you  'd  better  talk  a 
bit  with  my  other  daughter.  She  '11  tell  you 
everything  better  than  I  can.  .  .  .  Annotchka ! 
called  Madame  Milovidov,  'Annotchka,  come 
here !  Here  is  a  worthy  gentleman  from  Moscow 
wants  to  have  a  talk  about  Katia  ! ' 

There  was  a  sound  of  something  moving  in 
the  next  room  ;  but  no  one  appeared,  '  An- 
notchka ! '  the  widow  called  again,  '  Anna  Sem- 
yonovna !  come  here,  I  tell  you  ! ' 

The  door  softly  opened,  and  in  the  doorway 
appeared  a  girl  no  longer  very  young,  looking 
ill — and  plain — but  with  very  soft  and  mournful 
eyes.  Aratov  got  up  from  his  seat  to  meet  her, 
and  introduced  himself,  mentioning  his  friend 
Kupfer.  *Ah!  FyodorFedoritch?' the  girl  articu- 
lated softly,  and  softly  she  sank  into  a  chair. 

'  Now,  then,  you  must  talk  to  the  gentleman,' 
said  Madam  Milovidov,  getting  up  heavily: 
*  he 's  taken  trouble  enough,  he 's  come  all  the 
way  from  Moscow  on  purpose — he  wants  to 
collect  information  about  Katia.  And  will 
you,  my  good  sir,"  she  added,  addressing  Aratov 
— '  excuse  me  ...  I  'm  going  to  look  after  my 
housekeeping.  You  can  get  a  very  good 
62 


CLARA   MILITCH 

account  of  everything  from  Annotchka ;  she  will 
tell  you  about  the  theatre  .  .  .  and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  She  is  a  clever  girl,  well  educated  :  speaks 
French,  and  reads  books,  as  well  as  her  sister 
did.  One  may  say  indeed  she  gave  her  her 
education  .  .  .  she  was  older — and  so  she  looked 
after  it.' 

Madame  Milovidov  withdrew.  On  being  left 
alone  with  Anna  Semyonovna,  Aratov  repeated 
his  speech  to  her ;  but  realising  at  the  first 
glance  that  he  had  to  do  with  a  really  cultivated 
girl,  not  a  typical  tradesman's  daughter,  he  went 
a  little  more  into  particulars  and  made  use  of 
different  expressions ;  but  towards  the  end  he 
grew  agitated,  flushed  and  felt  that  his  heart  was 
throbbing.  Anna  listened  to  him  in  silence,  her 
hands  folded  on  her  lap  ;  a  mournful  smile 
never  left  her  face  .  .  .  bitter  grief,  still  fresh  in 
its  poignancy,  was  expressed  in  that  smile. 

'  You  knew  my  sister  ? '  she  asked  Aratov. 

*  No,  I  did  not  actually  know  her,'  he  an- 
swered. '  I  met  her  and  heard  her  once  .  .  . 
but  one  need  only  hear  and  see  your  sister  once 
to  .  .  .' 

'  Do  you  wish  to  write  her  biography  ? '  Anna 
questioned  him  again. 

Aratov  had  not  expected  this  inquiry  ;  how- 
ever, he  replied  promptly,  *  Why  not  ?  But 
above  all,  I  wanted  to  acquaint  the  public  .  .  .* 
63 


DREAM  TALES 

Anna  stopped  him  by  a  motion  of  her  hand. 

'What  is  the  object  of  that?  The  public 
caused  her  plenty  of  suffering  as  it  is  ;  and  in- 
deed Katia  had  only  just  begun  life.  But  if 
you  yourself — (Anna  looked  at  him  and  smiled 
again  a  smile  as  mournful  but  more  friendly 
...  as  though  she  were  saying  to  herself,  Yes, 
you  make  me  feel  I  can  trust  you)  ...  if  you 
yourself  feel  such  interest  in  her,  let  me  ask  you 
to  come  and  see  us  this  afternoon  .  .  .  after 
dinner.  I  can't  just  now  ...  so  suddenly  .  .  . 
I  will  collect  my  strength  ...  I  will  make  an 
effort  .  .  .  Ah,  I  loved  her  too  much ! ' 

Anna  turned  away  ;  she  was  on  the  point  of 
bursting  into  sobs. 

Aratov  rose  hurriedly  from  his  seat,  thanked 
her  for  her  offer,  said  he  should  be  sure  .  .  .  oh, 
very  sure ! — to  come — and  went  off,  carrying 
away  with  him  an  impression  of  a  soft  voice, 
gentle  and  sorrowful  eyes,  and  burning  in  the 
tortures  of  expectation. 


XIII 

Aratov  went  back  the  same  day  to  the  Milo- 
vidovs  and  spent  three  whole  hours  in  conversa- 
tion with  Anna  Semyonovna.    Madame  Milovi- 
64 


CLARA   MILITCH 

dov  was  in  the  habit  of  lying  down  directly  after 
dinner — at  two  o'clock — and  resting  till  even- 
ing tea  at  seven,  Aratov's  talk  with  Clara's 
sister  was  not  exactly  a  conversation  ;  she  did 
almost  all  the  talking,  at  first  with  hesitation, 
with  embarrassment,  then  with  a  warmth  that 
refused  to  be  stifled.  It  was  obvious  that 
she  had  adored  her  sister.  The  confidence 
Aratov  had  inspired  in  her  grew  and  strength- 
ened ;  she  was  no  longer  stiff ;  twice  she  even 
dropped  a  few  silent  tears  before  him.  He 
seemed  to  her  to  be  worthy  to  hear  an  unre- 
served account  of  all  she  knew  and  felt  ...  in 
her  own  secluded  life  nothing  of  this  sort  had 
ever  happened  before !  ...  As  for  him  ...  he 
drank  in  every  word  she  uttered. 

This  was  what  he  learned  .  .  .  much  of  it  of 
course,  half-said  .  .  .  much  he  filled  in  for  him- 
self. 

In  her  early  years,  Clara  had  undoubtedly 
been  a  disagreeable  child ;  and  even  as  a  girl, 
she  had  not  been  much  gentler;  self-willed, 
hot-tempered,  sensitive,  she  had  never  got  on 
with  her  father,  whom  she  despised  for  his 
drunkenness  and  incapacity.  He  felt  this  and 
never  forgave  her  for  it.  A  gift  for  music 
showed  itself  early  in  her ;  her  father  gave  it  no 
encouragement,  acknowledging  no  art  but  paint- 
ing, in  which  he  himself  was  so  conspicuously 
6s  E 


DREAM   TALES 

unsuccessful  though  it  was  the  means  of  sup- 
port of  himself  and  his  family.  Her  mother 
Clara  loved,  .  .  .  but  in  a  careless  way,  as 
though  she  were  her  nurse ;  her  sister  she 
adored,  though  she  fought  with  her  and  had 
even  bitten  her,  ...  It  is  true  she  fell  on  her 
knees  afterwards  and  kissed  the  place  she  had 
bitten.  She  was  all  fire,  all  passion,  and  all 
contradiction  ;  revengeful  and  kind  ;  magnani- 
mous and  vindictive  ;  she  believed  in  fate — and 
did  not  believe  in  God  (these  words  Anna 
whispered  with  horror) ;  she  loved  everything 
beautiful,  but  never  troubled  herself  about  her 
own  looks,  and  dressed  anyhow ;  she  could  not 
bear  to  have  young  men  courting  her,  and  yet 
in  books  she  only  read  the  pages  which  treated 
of  love ;  she  did  not  care  to  be  liked,  did  not 
like  caresses,  but  never  forgot  a  caress,  just  as 
she  never  forgot  a  slight ;  she  was  afraid  of 
death  and  killed  herself!  She  used  to  say 
sometimes,  *  Such  a  one  as  I  want  I  shall  never 
meet  .  .  .  and  no  other  will  I  have ! '  *  Well, 
but  if  you  meet  him  ?'  Anna  would  ask.  '  If  I 
meet  him  ...  I  will  capture  him.'  *  And  if  he 
won't  let  himself  be  captured  ? '  '  Well,  then  .  .  . 
I  will  make  an  end  of  myself  It  will  prove  I 
am  no  good.'  Clara's  father — he  used  sometimes 
when  drunk  to  ask  his  wife, '  Who  got  you  your 
blackbrowed  she-devil  there }  Not  I ! ' — Clara's 
66 


CLARA   MILITCH 

father,  anxious  to  get  her  off  his  hands  as  soon 
as  possible,  betrothed  her  to  a  rich  young  shop- 
keeper, a  great  blockhead,  one  of  the  so-called 
'  refined  '  sort  A  fortnight  before  the  wedding- 
day — she  was  only  sixteen  at  the  time — she 
went  up  to  her  betrothed,  her  arms  folded  and 
her  fingers  drumming  on  her  elbows — her 
favourite  position — and  suddenly  gave  him  a 
slap  on  his  rosy  cheek  with  her  large  powerful 
hand  !  He  jumped  and  merely  gaped  ;  it  must 
be  said  he  was  head  over  ears  in  love  with  her 
.  .  .  He  asked:  'What's  that  for?'  She 
laughed  scornfully  and  walked  off.  '  I  was 
there  in  the  room,'  Anna  related,  '  I  saw  it  all, 
I  ran  after  her  and  said  to  her,  "  Katia,  why  did 
you  do  that,  really  ?  "  And  she  answered  me  : 
"  If  he'd  been  a  real  man  he  would  have  pun- 
ished me,  but  he's  no  more  pluck  than  a 
drowned  hen  !  And  then  he  asks, '  What 's  that 
for?'  If  he  loves  me,  and  doesn't  bear  malice, 
he  had  better  put  up  with  it  and  not  ask, 
*  What 's  that  for  } '  I  will  never  be  anything  to 
him — never,  never ! "  And  indeed  she  did  not 
marry  him.  It  was  soon  after  that  she  made 
the  acquaintance  of  that  actress,  and  left  her 
home.  Mother  cried,  but  father  only  said,  "  A 
stubborn  beast  is  best  away  from  the  flock ! " 
And  he  did  not  bother  about  her,  or  try  to  find 
her  out.  My  father  did  not  understand  Katia 
67 


DREAM  TALES 

On  the  day  before  her  flight,'  added  Anna,  '  she 
almost  smothered  me  in  her  embraces,  and  kept 
repeating :  "  I  can't,  I  can't  help  it !  .  .  .  My 
heart 's  torn,  but  I  can't  help  it !  your  cage  is 
too  small  ...  it  cramps  my  wings !  And 
there 's  no  escaping  one's  fate.  .  .  ." 

'After  that,'  observed  Anna,  'we  saw  each 
other  very  seldom.  .  .  .  When  my  father  died, 
she  came  for  a  couple  of  days,  would  take  no- 
thing of  her  inheritance,  and  vanished  again. 
She  was  unhappy  with  us  ...  I  could  see  that 
Afterwards  she  came  to  Kazan  as  an  actress.' 

Aratov  began  questioning  Anna  about  the 
theatre,  about  the  parts  in  which  Clara  had 
appeared,  about  her  triumphs.  .  .  .  Anna 
answered  in  detail,  but  with  the  same  mournful, 
though  keen  fervour.  She  even  showed  Aratov 
a  photograph,  in  which  Clara  had  been  taken 
in  the  costume  of  one  of  her  parts.  In  the 
photograph  she  was  looking  away,  as  though 
tnrning  from  the  spectators  ;  her  thick  hair  tied 
with  a  ribbon  fell  in  a  coil  on  her  bare  arm. 
Aratov  looked  a  long  time  at  the  photograph, 
thought  it  like,  asked  whether  Clara  had  taken 
part  in  public  recitations,  and  learnt  that  she 
had  not ;  that  she  had  needed  the  excitement 
of  the  theatre,  the  scenery  .  .  .  but  another 
question  was  burning  on  his  lips. 

•  Anna  Semyonovna ! '   he  cried  at  last,  not 
68 


CLARA   MILITCH 

loudly,  but  with  a  peculiar  force,  'tell  me,  I 
implore  you,  tell  me  why  did  she  .  .  .  what  led 
her  to  this  fearful  step  ? '  .  .  . 

Anna  looked  down.  *  I  don't  know,'  she  said, 
after  a  pause  of  some  instants.  '  By  God,  I 
don't  know  1 '  she  went  on  strenuously,  suppos- 
ing from  Aratov's  gesture  that  he  did  not  believe 
her.  .  .  .  'since  she  came  back  here  certainly 
she  was  melancholy,  depressed.  Something 
must  have  happened  to  her  in  Moscow — what, 
I  could  never  guess.  But  on  the  other  hand, 
on  that  fatal  day  she  seemed  as  it  were  .  .  .  if  not 
more  cheerful,  at  least  more  serene  than  usual. 
Even  I  had  no  presentiment,'  added  Anna  with 
a  bitter  smile,  as  though  reproaching  herself 
for  it. 

'You  see,'  she  began  again,  'it  seemed  as 
though  at  Katia's  birth  it  had  been  decreed 
that  she  was  to  be  unhappy.  From  her  early 
years  she  was  convinced  of  it.  She  would  lean 
her  head  on  her  hand,  sink  into  thought,  and 
say,  "  I  shall  not  live  long ! "  She  used  to  have 
presentiments.  Imagine  !  she  used  to  see  before- 
hand, sometimes  in  a  dream  and  sometimes 
awake,  what  was  going  to  happen  to  her !  "  If 
I  can't  live  as  I  want  to  live,  then  I  won't  live," 
.  .  .  was  a  saying  of  hers  too.  ..."  Our  life 's 
in  our  own  hands,  you  know."  And  she  proved 
that!' 

60 


DREAM   TALES 

Anna  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  stopped 
speaking.  *  Anna  Semyonovna,'  Aratov  began 
after  a  short  pause,  '  you  have  perhaps  heard  to 
what  the  newspapers  ascribed  .  .  .  "To  an 
unhappy  love  affair  ?  " '  Anna  broke  in,  at  once 
pulling  away  her  hands  from  her  face.  '  That 's 
a  slander,  a  fabrication !  .  .  .  My  pure,  un- 
approachable Katia  ,  .  .  Katia !  .  .  .  and 
unhappy,  unrequited  love?  And  shouldn't  I 
have  known  of  it  ?  .  .  .  Every  one  was  in  love 
with  her  .  .  .  while  she  .  .  .  And  whom  could 
she  have  fallen  in  love  with  here  ?  Who  among 
all  the  people  here,  who  was  worthy  of  her? 
Who  was  up  to  the  standard  of  honesty,  truth, 
purity  .  .  .  yes,  above  all,  of  purity  which  she, 
with  all  her  faults,  always  held  up  as  an  ideal 
before  her  ?  .  .  .  She  repulsed !  .  .  .  she !  .  .  .' 

Anna's  voice  broke Her  fingers  were 

trembling.  All  at  once  she  flushed  crimson  .  .  . 
crimson  with  indignation,  and  for  that  instant, 
and  that  instant  only,  she  was  like  her  sister. 

Aratov  was  beginning  an  apology. 

'  Listen,'  Anna  broke  in  again,  '  I  have  an 
intense  desire  that  you  should  not  believe  that 
slander,  and  should  refute  it,  if  possible !  You 
want  to  write  an  article  or  something  about 
her:  that's  your  opportunity  for  defending  her 
memory !  That 's  why  I  talk  so  openly  to  yoa 
Let  me  tell  you ;  Katia  left  a  diary  .  .  .' 
70 


CLARA   MILITCH 

Aratov  trembled.     *  A  diary  ? '  he  muttered. 

'  Yes,  a  diary  .  .  .  that  is,  only  a  few  pages. 
Katia  was  not  fond  of  writing  .  .  .  for  months 
at  a  time  she  would  write  nothing,  and  her 
letters  were  so  short.  But  she  was  always, 
always  truthful,  she  never  told  a  lie.  .  .  .  She, 
with  her  pride,  tell  a  lie !  I  ...  I  will  show 
you  this  diary !  You  shall  see  for  yourself 
whether  there  is  the  least  hint  in  it  of  any  un- 
happy love  affair ! ' 

Anna  quickly  took  out  of  a  table-drawer  a 
thin  exercise-book,  ten  pages,  no  more,  and 
held  it  out  to  Aratov.  He  seized  it  eagerly, 
recognised  the  irregular  sprawling  handwriting, 
the  handwriting  of  that  anonymous  letter, 
opened  it  at  random,  and  at  once  lighted  upon 
the  following  lines. 

'  Moscow,  Tuesday  .  .  .  June. — Sang  and 
recited  at  a  literary  matinee.  To-day  is  a  vital 
day  for  me.  It  must  decide  my  fate.  (These 
words  wer  ^  twice  underlined.)  I  saw  again  .  .  .'• 
Here  followed  a  few  lines  carefully  erased. 
And  then,  *  No !  no  !  no !  .  .  Must  go  back 
to  the  old  way,  if  only  .  .  .* 

Aratov  dropped  the  hand  that  held  the  diary, 
and  his  head  slowly  sank  upon  his  breast. 

'  Read  it ! '  cried  Anna.  *  Why  don't  you 
read  it  ?  Read  it  through  from  the  beginning. 
...  It  would  take  only  five  minutes  to  read  it 
71 


DREAM   TALES 

all,  though  the  diary  extends  over  two  years. 
In  Kazan  she  used  to  write  down  nothing  at 
all.  .  .  .' 

Aratov  got  up  slowly  from  his  chair  and 
flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  Anna. 

She  was  simply  petrified  with  wonder  and 
dismay. 

'  Give  me  .  .  .  give  me  that  diary,'  Aratov 
began  with  failing  voice,  and  he  stretched  out 
both  hands  to  Anna.  *  Give  it  me  .  .  .  and 
the  photograph  .  .  .  you  are  sure  to  have  some 
other  one,  and  the  diary  I  will  return.  ,  .  .  But 
I  want  it,  oh,  I  want  it !  .  .  .* 

In  his  imploring  words,  in  his  contorted 
features  there  was  something  so  despairing  that 
it  looked  positively  like  rage,  like  agony  .  .  . 
And  he  was  in  agony,  truly.  He  could  not 
himself  have  foreseen  that  such  pain  could  be 
felt  by  him,  and  in  a  frenzy  he  implored  for- 
giveness, deliverance  .  .  . 

*  Give  it  me,'  he  repeated. 

'But  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  you  were  in   love  with 
my  sister  ?  *  Anna  said  at  last. 
Aratov  was  still  on  his  knees. 

*  I  only  saw  her  twice  .  .  .  believe  me !  .  .  . 
and  if  I  had  not  been  impelled  by  causes,  which 
I  can  neither  explain  nor  fully  understand  my- 
self, ...  if  there  had  not  been  some  power 
over  me,  stronger  than  myself  ...  I  should 

72 


CLARA   MILITCH 

not  be  entreating  you  ...  I  should  not  have 
come  here.  I  want  ...  I  must  .  .  .  you 
yourself  said  I  ought  to  defend  her  memory  ! ' 

'  And  you  were  not  in  love  with  my  sister  ? ' 
Anna  asked  a  second  time. 

Aratov  did  not  at  once  reply,  and  he  turned 
aside  a  little,  as  though  in  pain. 

'  Well,  then  !  I  was  !  I  was — I  'm  in  love  now,* 
he  cried  in  the  same  tone  of  despair. 

Steps  were  heard  in  the  next  room. 

'  Get  up  .  .  .  get  up  .  .  .'  said  Anna 
hurriedly.     *  Mamma  is  coming.' 

Aratov  rose. 

'  And  take  the  diary  and  the  photograph,  in 
God's  name !  Poor,  poor  Katia  !  .  .  .  But  you 
will  give  me  back  the  diary,'  she  added  em- 
phatically. '  And  if  you  write  anything,  be 
sure  to  send  it  me.  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  ?  ' 

The  entrance  of  Madame  Milovidov  saved 
Aratov  from  the  necessity  of  a  reply.  He  had 
time,  however,  to  murmur,  *  You  are  an  angel ! 
Thanks !  I  will  send  anything  I  write.  .  .  .' 

Madame  Milovidov,  half  awake,  did  not  sus- 
pect anything.  So  Aratov  left  Kazan  with 
the  photograph  in  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat 
The  diary  he  gave  back  to  Anna ;  but,  un- 
observed by  her,  he  cut  out  the  page  on  which 
were  the  words  underlined. 

On  the  way  back  to  Moscow  he  relapsed 
73 


DREAM   TALES 

again  into  a  state  of  petrifaction.  Though  he 
was  secretly  delighted  that  he  had  attained  the 
object  of  his  journey,  still  all  thoughts  of  Clara 
he  deferred  till  he  should  be  back  at  home.  He 
thought  much  more  about  her  sister  Anna. 
*  There/  he  thought,  '  is  an  exquisite,  charming 
creature.  What  delicate  comprehension  of 
everything,  what  a  loving  heart,  what  a  com- 
plete absence  of  egoism  !  And  how  girls  like 
that  spring  up  among  us,  in  the  provinces,  and 
in  such  surroundings  too !  She  is  not  strong, 
and  not  good-looking,  and  not  young ;  but  what 
a  splendid  helpmate  she  would  be  for  a  sensible, 
cultivated  man  !  That 's  the  girl  I  ought  to  have 
fallen  in  love  with ! '  Such  were  Aratov's  re- 
flections .  .  .  but  on  his  arrival  in  Moscow 
things  put  on  quite  a  different  complexion. 


XIV 

Platonida  Ivanovna  was  unspeakably  re- 
joiced at  her  nephew's  return.  There  was  no 
terrible  chance  she  had  not  imagined  during 
his  absence.  '  Siberia  at  least ! '  she  muttered, 
sitting  rigidly  still  in  her  little  room  ;  '  at  least 
for  a  year ! '  The  cook  too  had  terrified  her  by 
the  most  well-authenticated  stories  of  the  dis- 
74 


CLARA  MILITCH 

appearance  of  this  and  that  young  man  of  the 
neighbourhood.  The  perfect  innocence  and 
absence  of  revolutionary  ideas  in  Yasha  did  not 
in  the  least  reassure  the  old  lady.  '  For  indeed 
...  if  you  come  to  that,  he  studies  photo- 
graphy .  .  .  and  that 's  quite  enough  for  them 
to  arrest  him ! '  And  behold,  here  was  her 
darling  Yasha  back  again,  safe  and  sound.  She 
observed,  indeed,  that  he  seemed  thinner,  and 
looked  hollow  in  the  face  ;  natural  enough,  with 
no  one  to  look  after  him !  but  she  did  not 
venture  to  question  him  about  his  journey. 
She  asked  at  dinner.  'And  is  Kazan  a  fine 
town  ? '  '  Yes,'  answered  Aratov.  *  I  suppose 
they're  all  Tartars  living  there?'  'Not  only 
Tartars.'  *  And  did  you  get  a  Kazan  dressing- 
gown  while  you  were  there  ? '  *  No,  I  didn't' 
With  that  the  conversation  ended. 

But  as  soon  as  Aratov  found  himself  alone  in 
his  own  room,  he  quickly  felt  as  though  some- 
thing were  enfolding  him  about,  as  though  he 
were  once  more  in  the  power,  yes,  in  the  power  of 
another  life,  another  being.  Though  he  had 
indeed  said  to  Anna  in  that  sudden  delirious  out- 
burst that  he  was  in  love  with  Clara,  that  saying 
struck  even  him  now  as  senseless  and  frantic. 
No,  he  was  not  in  love ;  and  how  could  he  be  in 
love  with  a  dead  woman,  whom  he  had  not  even 
liked  in  her  lifetime,  whom  he  had  almost  for- 
75 


DREAM   TALES 

gotten?  No,  but  he  was  in  her  power  .  .  . 
he  no  longer  belonged  to  himself.  He  was 
captured.  So  completely  captured,  that  he  did 
not  even  attempt  to  free  himself  by  laughing  at 
his  own  absurdity,  nor  by  trying  to  arouse  if 
not  a  conviction,  at  least  a  hope  in  himself  that 
it  would  all  pass,  that  it  was  nothing  but  nerves, 
nor  by  seeking  for  proofs,  nor  by  anything ! 
'  If  I  meet  him,  I  will  capture  him,'  he  recalled 
those  words  of  Clara's  Anna  had  repeated  to  him. 
Well,  he  was  captured.  But  was  not  she  dead } 
Yes,  her  body  was  dead  .  .  .  but  her  soul  ?  .  .  . 
is  not  that  immortal  ?  .  .  .  does  it  need  corporeal 
organs  to  show  its  power?  Magnetism  has 
proved  to  us  the  influence  of  one  living  human 
soul  over  another  living  human  soul.  .  .  .  Why 
should  not  this  influence  last  after  death,  if  the 
soul  remains  living?  But  to  what  end ?  What 
can  come  of  it  ?  But  can  we,  as  a  rule,  appre- 
hend what  is  the  object  of  all  that  takes  place 
about  us  ?  These  ideas  so  absorbed  Aratov  that 
he  suddenly  asked  Platosha  at  tea-time  whether 
she  believed  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  She 
did  not  for  the  first  minute  understand  what 
his  question  was,  then  she  crossed  herself  and 
answered.  '  She  should  think  so  indeed  !  The 
soul  not  immortal ! '  *  And,  if  so,  can  it  have 
any  influence  after  death  ? '  Aratov  asked  again. 
The  old  lady  replied  that  it  could  .  .  .  pray 
7fi 


CLARA   MILITCH 

for  us,  that  is  to  say ;  at  least,  when  it  had 
passed  through  all  its  ordeals,  awaiting  the 
last  dread  judgment.  But  for  the  first  forty- 
days  the  soul  simply  hovered  about  the  place 
where  its  death  had  occurred. 
'  The  first  forty  days  ?  ' 
*  Yes  ;  and  then  the  ordeals  follow.' 
Aratov  was  astounded  at  his  aunt's  know- 
ledge, and  went  off  to  his  room.  And  again  he 
felt  the  same  thing,  the  same  power  over  him. 
This  power  showed  itself  in  Clara's  image  being 
constantly  before  him  to  the  minutest  details, 
such  details  as  he  seemed  hardly  to  have  observed 
in  her  lifetime ;  he  saw  .  .  .  saw  her  fingers, 
her  nails,  the  little  hairs  on  her  cheeks  near  her 
temples,  the  little  mole  under  her  left  eye ;  he 
saw  the  slight  movement  of  her  lips,  her  nostrils, 
her  eyebrows  .  .  .  and  her  walk,  and  how  she 
held  her  head  a  little  on  the  right  side  ...  he 
saw  everything.  He  did  not  by  any  means 
take  a  delight  in  it  all,  only  he  could  not  help 
thinking  of  it  and  seeing  it.  The  first  night 
after  his  return  he  did  not,  however,  dream  of 
her  ...  he  was  very  tired,  and  slept  like  a  log. 
But  directly  he  waked  up,  she  came  back  into 
his  room  again,  and  seemed  to  establish  herself 
in  it,  as  though  she  were  the  mistress,  as  though 
by  her  voluntary  death  she  had  purchased  the 
right  to  it,  without  asking  him  or  needing  his 
77 


DREAM   TALES 

permission.  He  took  up  her  photograph,  he 
began  reproducing  it,  enlarging  it  Then  he 
took  it  into  his  head  to  fit  it  to  the  stereoscope. 
He  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  do  it  .  .  .  at 
last  he  succeeded.  He  fairly  shuddered  when 
through  the  glass  he  looked  upon  her  figure, 
with  the  semblance  of  corporeal  solidity  given 
it  by  the  stereoscope.  But  the  figure  was  grey, 
as  though  covered  with  dust  ...  and  moreover 
the  eyes — the  eyes  looked  always  to  one  side, 
as  though  turning  away.  A  long,  long  while 
he  stared  at  them,  as  though  expecting  them  to 
turn  to  him  ...  he  even  half-closed  his  eye- 
lids on  purpose  .  .  .  but  the  eyes  remained 
immovable,  and  the  whole  figure  had  the  look 
of  some  sort  of  doll.  He  moved  away,  flung 
himself  in  an  armchair,  took  out  the  leaf  from 
her  diary,  with  the  words  underlined,  and 
thought, '  Well,  lovers,  they  say,  kiss  the  words 
traced  by  the  hand  of  the  beloved — but  I  feel 
no  inclination  to  do  that — and  the  handwriting 
I  think  ugly.  But  that  line  contains  my  sen- 
tence.' Then  he  recalled  the  promise  he  had 
made  Anna  about  the  article.  He  sat  down  to 
the  table,  and  set  to  work  upon  it,  but  every- 
thing he  wrote  struck  him  as  so  false,  so  rhetori- 
cal ..  .  especially  so  false  ...  as  though  he 
did  not  believe  in  what  he  was  writing  nor  in 
his  own  feelings. .  . ,  And  Clara  herself  seemed 
78 


CLARA   MILITCH 

SO  Utterly  unknown  and  uncomprehended !  She 
seemed  to  withhold  herself  from  him.  '  No  ! ' 
he  thought,  throwing  down  the  pen  ...  *  either 
authorship 's  altogether  not  my  line,  or  I  must 
wait  a  little  ! '  He  fell  to  recalling  his  visit  to 
the  Milovidovs,  and  all  Anna  had  told  him,  that 
sweet,  delightful  Anna.  ...  A  word  she  had 
uttered — 'pure' — suddenly  struck  him.  It  was 
as  though  something  scorched  him,  and  shed 
light.  '  Yes,'  he  said  aloud, '  she  was  pure,  and 
I  am  pure.  .  ,  ,  That's  what  gave  her  this 
power.' 

Thoughts  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  of 
the  life  beyond  the  grave  crowded  upon  him 
again.  Was  it  not  said  in  the  Bible :  *  Death, 
where  is  thy  sting?'  And  in  Schiller:  'And 
the  dead  shall  live  I '  (Auch  die  Todten  sollen 
leben !) 

And  too,  he  thought,  in  Mitskevitch :  *  I  will 
love  thee  to  the  end  of  time  .  .  .  and  beyond 
it!'  And  an  English  writer  had  said:  'Love 
is  stronger  than  death.'  The  text  from  Scrip- 
ture produced  particular  effect  on  Aratov.  .  .  . 
He  tried  to  find  the  place  where  the  words 
occurred.  .  .  .  He  had  no  Bible ;  he  went  to 
ask  Platosha  for  one.  She  wondered,  she 
brought  out,  however,  a  very  old  book  in  a 
warped  leather  binding,  with  copper  clasps, 
covered  with  candle  wax,  and  handed  it  over  to 
79 


DREAM   TALES 

Aratov.  He  bore  it  off  to  his  own  room,  but 
for  a  long  time  he  could  not  find  the  text  .  .  . 
he  stumbled,  however,  on  another :  '  Greater 
love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay  down 
his  life  for  his  friends'  (S.  John  xv.  13). 

He  thought :  '  That 's  not  right.  It  ought  to 
be :  Greater  power  hath  no  man.' 

*  But  if  she  did  not  lay  down  her  life  for  me 
at  all  ?  If  she  made  an  end  of  herself  simply 
because  life  had  become  a  burden  to  her? 
What  if,  after  all,  she  did  not  come  to  that 
meeting  for  anything  to  do  with  love  at  all  ? ' 

But  at  that  instant  he  pictured  to  himself 
Clara  before  their  parting  on  the  boulevard.  .  .  . 
He  remembered  the  look  of  pain  on  her  face, 
and  the  tears  and  the  words, '  Ah,  you  under- 
stood nothing ! ' 

No !  he  could  have  no  doubt  why  and  for 
whom  she  had  laid  down  her  life.  .  .  . 

So  passed  that  whole  day  till  night-time. 


XV 

Aratov  went  to  bed  early,  without  feeling 
specially  sleepy,  but  he  hoped  to  find  repose  in 
bed.  The  strained  condition  of  his  nerves 
brought  about  an  exhaustion  far  more  unbear- 
80 


CLARA  MILITCH 

able  than  the  bodily  fatigue  of  the  journey  and 
the  railway.  However,  exhausted  as  he  was, 
he  could  not  get  to  sleep.  He  tried  to  read  .  .  . 
but  the  lines  danced  before  his  eyes.  He  put 
out  the  candle,  and  darkness  reigned  in  his 
room.  But  still  he  lay  sleepless,  with  his  eyes 
shut.  .  .  .  And  it  began  to  seem  to  him  some 
one  was  whispering  in  his  ear.  ...  *  The  beat- 
ing of  the  heart,  the  pulse  of  the  blood,'  he 
thought.  .  .  .  But  the  whisper  passed  into  con- 
nected speech.  Some  one  was  talking  in  Rus- 
sian hurriedly,  plaintively,  and  indistinctly. 
Not  one  separate  word  could  he  catch.  .  .  . 
But  it  was  the  voice  of  Clara. 

Aratov  opened  his  eyes,  raised  himself,  leaned 
on  his  elbow.  .  .  .  The  voice  grew  fainter,  but 
kept  up  its  plaintive,  hurried  talk,  indistinct  as 
before.  .  .  . 

It  was  unmistakably  Clara's  voice. 

Unseen  fingers  ran  light  arpeggios  up  and 
down  the  keys  of  the  piano  .  .  .  then  the  voice 
began  again.  More  prolonged  sounds  were 
audible  ...  as  it  were  moans  .  .  .  always  the 
same  over  and  over  again.  Then  apart  from 
the  rest  the  words  began  to  stand  out  .  .  . 
*  Roses  .  .  .  roses  .  .  .  roses.  .  .  .' 

'  Roses,'  repeated  Aratov  in  a  whisper.     '  Ah, 
yes  !  it 's  the  roses  I  saw  on  that  woman's  head 
in  the  dream.'  ...  *  Roses,'  he  heard  again. 
8i  F 


DREAM   TALES 

*  Is  that  you  ? '  Aratov  asked  in  the  same 
whisper.     The  voice  suddenly  ceased. 

Aratov  waited  .  .  .  and  waited,  and  dropped 
his  head  on  the  pillow.  '  Hallucinations  of 
hearing,'  he  thought.  *  But  if  ...  if  she  really 
were  here,  close  at  hand  ?  .  .  .  If  I  were  to  see 
her,  should  I  be  frightened  ?  or  glad  ?  But 
what  should  I  be  frightened  of.-*  or  glad  of? 
Why,  of  this,  to  be  sure ;  it  would  be  a  proof 
that  there  is  another  world,  that  the  soul  is 
immortal.  Though,  indeed,  even  if  I  did  see 
something,  it  too  might  be  a  hallucination  of 
the  sight.  .  .  .' 

He  lighted  the  candle,  however,  and  in  a 
rapid  glance,  not  without  a  certain  dread, 
scanned  the  whole  room  .  .  .  and  saw  nothing 
in  it  unusual.  He  got  up,  went  to  the  stereo- 
scope .  .  .  again  the  same  grey  doll,  with  its 
eyes  averted.  The  feeling  of  dread  gave  way 
to  one  of  annoyance.  He  was,  as  it  were, 
cheated  in  his  expectations  .  .  .  the  very  ex- 
pectation indeed  struck  him  as  absurd. 

'Well,  this  is  positively  idiotic  ! '  he  mut- 
tered, as  he  got  back  into  bed,  and  blew  out  the 
candle.     Profound  darkness  reigned  once  more. 

Aratov  resolved  to  go  to  sleep  this  time.  .  .  . 

But  a  fresh  sensation  started  up  in  him.     He 

fancied  some  one  was  standing  in  the  middle  of 

the  room,  not  far  from  him,  and  scarcely  per- 

82 


CLARA   MILITCII 

ceptibly  breathing.  He  turned  round  hastily 
and  opened  his  eyes.  .  .  .  But  what  could  be 
seen  in  impenetrable  darkness  ?  He  began  to 
feel  for  a  match  on  his  little  bedside  table  .  .  . 
and  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  sort  of 
soft,  noiseless  hurricane  was  passing  over  the 
whole  room,  over  him,  through  him,  and  the 
word  *  I  ! '  sounded  distinctly  in  his  ears.  .  .  . 

'I!  .  .  .  I!'  .  .  . 

Some  instants  passed  before  he  succeeded  in 
getting  the  candle  alight. 

Again  there  was  no  one  in  the  room  ;  and  he 
now  heard  nothing,  except  the  uneven  throb- 
bing of  his  own  heart.  He  drank  a  glass  of 
water,  and  stayed  still,  his  head  resting  on  his 
hand.     He  was  waiting. 

He  thought :  '  I  will  wait.  Either  it 's  all 
nonsense  ...  or  she  is  here.  She  is  not  going 
to  play  cat  and  mouse  with  me  like  this  ! '  He 
waited,  waited  long  ...  so  long  that  the  hand 
on  which  he  was  resting  his  head  went  numb 
.  .  .  but  not  one  of  his  previous  sensations  was 
repeated.  Twice  his  eyes  closed.  .  .  .  He 
opened  them  promptly  ...  at  least  he  believed 
that  he  opened  them.  Gradually  they  turned 
towards  the  door  and  rested  on  it.  The  candle 
burned  dim,  and  it  was  once  more  dark  in  the 
room  .  .  .  but  the  door  made  a  long  streak  of 
white  in  the  half  darkness.  And  now  this 
83 


DREAM   TALES 

patch  began  to  move,  to  grow  less,  to  disappear 
.  .  .  and  in  its  place,  in  the  doorway  appeared 
a  woman's  figure.  Aratov  looked  intently  at 
it  .  .  .  Clara !  And  this  time  she  was  looking 
straight  at  him,  coming  towards  him.  .  .  .  On 
her  head  was  a  wreath  of  red  roses.  ...  He 
was  all  in  agitation,  he  sat  up.  .  .  . 

Before  him  stood  his  aunt  in  a  nightcap 
adorned  with  a  broad  red  ribbon,  and  in  a  white 
dressing-jacket. 

*  Platosha  ! '  he  said  with  an  effort.  '  Is  that 
you?' 

'Yes,  it's  I,'  answered  Platonida  Ivanovna 
.  .  .  '  I,  Yasha  darling,  yes.' 

*  What  have  you  come  for  ?  * 

'  You  waked  me  up.  At  first  you  kept  moan- 
ing as  it  were  .  .  .  and  then  you  cried  out  all 
of  a  sudden,  "  Save  me !  help  me  ! " ' 

'  I  cried  out  ? ' 

'  Yes,  and  such  a  hoarse  cry,  "  Save  me  ! "  I 
thought,  Mercy  on  us  !  He 's  never  ill,  is  he  ? 
And  I  came  in.     Are  you  quite  well  ? ' 

'  Perfectly  well' 

*  Well,  you  must  have  had  a  bad  dream  then. 
Would  you  like  me  to  burn  a  little  incense  ? ' 

Aratov  once  more  stared  intently  at  his  aunt, 

and  laughed  aloud.  .  .  .  The  figure  of  the  good 

old  lady  in  her  nightcap  and  dressing-jacket, 

with  her  long  face  and  scared  expression,  was 

84 


CLARA  MILITCH 

certainly  very  comic.  All  the  mystery  sur- 
rounding him,  oppressing  him  —  everything 
weird  was  sent  flying  instantaneously. 

*  No,  Platosha  dear,  there 's  no  need,'  he  said 
'  Please  forgive  me  for  unwittingly  troubling 
you.     Sleep  well,  and  I  will  sleep  too.' 

Platonida  Ivanovna  remained  a  minute 
standing  where  she  was,  pointed  to  the  candle, 
grumbled,  '  Why  not  put  it  out ...  an  accident 
happens  in  a  minute?'  and  as  she  went  out, 
could  not  refrain,  though  only  at  a  distance, 
from  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  him. 

Aratov  fell  asleep  quickly,  and  slept  till 
morning.  He  even  got  up  in  a  happy  frame 
of  mind  .  .  .  though  he  felt  sorry  for  some- 
thing. .  .  .  He  felt  light  and  free.  'What 
romantic  fancies,  if  you  come  to  think  of  it ! ' 
he  said  to  himself  with  a  smile.  He  never 
once  glanced  either  at  the  stereoscope,  or  at 
the  page  torn  out  of  the  diary.  Immediately 
after  breakfast,  however,  he  set  off  to  go  to 
Kupfer's. 

What  drew  him  there  ...  he  was  dimly 
aware. 


XVI 

Aratov  found  his  sanguine  friend  at  home. 

He  chatted  a  little  with  him,  reproached  him 

85 


DREAM   TALES 

for  having  quite  forgotten  his  aunt  and  himself, 
listened  to  fresh  praises  of  that  heart  of  gold, 
the  princess,  who  had  just  sent  Kupfer  from 
Yaroslav  a  smoking-cap  embroidered  with  fish- 
scales  .  .  .  and  all  at  once,  sitting  just  opposite 
Kupfer  and  looking  him  straight  in  the  face, 
he  announced  that  he  had  been  a  journey  to 
Kazan. 

'  You  have  been  to  Kazan  ;  what  for  ? ' 

*Oh,  I  wanted  to  collect  some  facts  about 
that  .  .  .  Clara  Militch.' 

'The  one  that  poisoned  herself?* 

'  Yes.' 

Kupfer  shook  his  head,  *  Well,  you  are  a 
chap!  And  so  quiet  about  it!  Toiled  a  thousand 
miles  out  there  and  back  ...  for  what  ?  Eh  ? 
If  there 'd  been  some  woman  in  the  case  now! 
Then  I  can  understand  anything !  anything ! 
any  madness ! '  Kupfer  ruffled  up  his  hair. 
'  But  simply  to  collect  materials,  as  it 's  called 
among  you  learned  people.  ...  I  'd  rather  be 
excused !  There  are  statistical  writers  to  do 
that  job!  Well,  and  did  you  make  friends 
with  the  old  lady  and  the  sister  ?  Isn't  she  a 
delightful  girl  ? ' 

'  Delightful,'  answered  Aratov,  '  she  gave  me 
a  great  deal  of  interesting  information.' 

'  Did  she  tell  you  exactly  how  Clara  took 
poison  ? ' 

86 


CLARA   MILITCH 

'  You  mean  .  .  .  how  ? ' 

*  Yes,  in  what  manner  ?  ' 

*No  .  .  .  she  was  still  in  such  grief  ...  I 
did  not  venture  to  question  her  too  much. 
Was  there  anything  remarkable  about  it  ? ' 

'  To  be  sure  there  was.  Only  fancy ;  she 
had  to  appear  on  the  stage  that  very  day,  and 
she  acted  her  part.  She  took  a  glass  of  poison 
to  the  theatre  with  her,  drank  it  before  the  first 
act,  and  went  through  all  that  act  afterwards. 
With  the  poison  inside  her !  Isn't  that  some- 
thing like  strength  of  will  ?  Character,  eh  ? 
And,  they  say,  she  never  acted  her  part  with 
such  feeling,  such  passion !  The  public  sus- 
pected nothing,  they  clapped,  and  called  for 
her.  ,  .  .  And  directly  the  curtain  fell,  she 
dropped  down  there,  on  the  stage.  Convulsions 
.  .  .  and  convulsions,  and  within  an  hour  she 
was  dead  !  But  didn't  I  tell  you  all  about  it  ? 
And  it  was  in  the  papers  too !  * 

Aratov's  hands  had  grown  suddenly  cold, 
and  he  felt  an  inward  shiver. 

'  No,  you  didn't  tell  me  that,'  he  said  at  last 
*  And  you  don't  know  what  play  it  was  ? 

Kupfer  thought  a  minute.  *  I  did  hear 
what  the  play  was  .  .  .  there  is  a  betrayed 
girl  in  it.  .  .  .  Some  drama,  it  must  have  been. 
Clara  was  created  for  dramatic  parts.  .  .  .  Her 
very  appearance  .  .  .  But  where  are  you  off 
87 


DREAM  TALES 

to?'  Kupfer  interrupted  himself,  seeing  that 
Aratov  was  reaching  after  his  hat. 

*  I  don't  feel  quite  well,'  replied  Aratov. 
'  Good-bye  ...  I  '11  come  in  another  time.' 

Kupfer  stopped  him  and  looked  into  his  face. 
'  What  a  nervous  fellow  you  are,  my  boy !  Just 
look  at  yourself.  .  .  .  You're  as  white  as 
chalk.' 

'  I  'm  not  well,'  repeated  Aratov,  and,  dis- 
engaging himself  from  Kupfer's  detaining 
hands,  he  started  homewards.  Only  at  that 
instant  it  became  clear  to  him  that  he  had 
come  to  Kupfer  with  the  sole  object  of  talking 
of  Clara  .  .  . 

•  Unhappy  Clara,  poor  frantic  Clara.  .  .  •' 

On  reaching  home,  however,  he  quickly 
regained  his  composure  to  a  certain  degree. 

The  circumstances  accompanying  Clara's 
death  had  at  first  given  him  a  violent  shock 
.  .  .  but  later  on  this  performance  *  with  the 
poison  inside  her,'  as  Kupfer  had  expressed  it, 
struck  him  as  a  kind  of  monstrous  pose,  a  piece 
of  bravado,  and  he  was  already  trying  not  to 
think  about  it,  fearing  to  arouse  a  feeling  in  him- 
self, not  unlike  repugnance.  And  at  dinner,  as 
he  sat  facing  Platosha,  he  suddenly  recalled  her 
midnight  appearance,  recalled  that  abbreviated 
dressing-jacket,  the  cap  with  the  high  ribbon — 
88 


CLARA  MILITCH 

and  why  a  ribbon  on  a  nightcap? — all  the 
ludicrous  apparition  which,  like  the  scene- 
shifter's  whistle  in  a  transformation  scene,  had 
dissolved  all  his  visions  into  dust !  He  even 
forced  Platosha  to  repeat  her  description  of 
how  she  had  heard  his  scream,  had  been 
alarmed,  had  jumped  up,  could  not  for  a 
minute  find  either  his  door  or  her  own,  and 
so  on.  In  the  evening  he  played  a  game  of 
cards  with  her,  and  went  off  to  his  room  rather 
depressed,  but  again  fairly  composed. 

Aratov  did  not  think  about  the  approaching 
night,  and  was  not  afraid  of  it :  he  was  sure  he 
would  pass  an  excellent  night.  The  thought 
of  Clara  had  sprung  up  within  him  from  time 
to  time ;  but  he  remembered  at  once  how 
'  affectedly '  she  had  killed  herself,  and  turned 
away  from  it  This  piece  of  'bad  taste' 
blocked  out  all  other  memories  of  her.  Glanc- 
ing cursorily  into  the  stereoscope,  he  even 
fancied  that  she  was  averting  her  eyes  because 
she  was  ashamed.  Opposite  the  stereoscope 
on  the  wall  hung  a  portrait  of  his  mother. 
Aratov  took  it  from  its  nail,  scrutinised  it  a 
long  while,  kissed  it  and  carefully  put  it  away 
in  a  drawer.  Why  did  he  do  that  ?  Whether 
it  was  that  it  was  not  fitting  for  this  portrait  to 
be  so  close  to  that  woman  ...  or  for  some 
other  reason  Aratov  did  not  inquire  of  himself 
89 


DREAM   TALES 

But  his  mother's  portrait  stirred  up  memories 
of  his  father  ...  of  his  father,  whom  he  had 
seen  dying  in  this  very  room,  in  this  bed. 
'  What  do  you  think  of  all  this,  father  ? '  he 
mentally  addressed  himself  to  him.  'You 
understand  all  this  ;  you  too  believed  in 
Schiller's  world  of  spirits.     Give  me  advice  ! ' 

*  Father  would  have  advised  me  to  give  up 
all  this  idiocy,'  Aratov  said  aloud,  and  he  took 
up  a  book.  He  could  not,  however,  read  for 
long,  and  feeling  a  sort  of  heaviness  all  over,  he 
went  to  bed  earlier  than  usual,  in  the  full  con- 
viction that  he  would  fall  asleep  at  once. 

And  so  it  happened  .  .  .  but  his  hopes  of  a 
quiet  night  were  not  realised. 


XVII 

It  had  not  struck  midnight  when  he  had  an 
extraordinary  and  terrifying  dream. 

He  dreamed  that  he  was  in  a  rich  manor- 
house  of  which  he  was  the  owner.  He  had 
lately  bought  both  the  house  and  the  estate 
attached  to  it.  And  he  kept  thinking,  'It's 
nice,  very  nice  now,  but  evil  is  coming  1 '  Be- 
side him  moved  to  and  fro  a  little  tiny  man, 
his  steward  ;  he  kept  laughing,  bowing,  and 
90 


CLARA   MILITCH 

trying  to  show  Aratov  how  admirably  every- 
thing was  arranged  in  his  house  and  his  estate. 
'  This  way,  pray,  this  way,  pray,'  he  kept  re- 
peating, chuckling  at  every  word  ;  '  kindly  look 
how  prosperous  everything  is  with  you !  Look 
at  the  horses  .  .  .  what  splendid  horses  ! '  And 
Aratov  saw  a  row  of  immense  horses.  They 
were  standing  in  their  stalls  with  their  backs  to 
him  ;  their  manes  and  tails  were  magnificent 
.  .  .  but  as  soon  as  Aratov  went  near,  the 
horses'  heads  turned  towards  him,  and  they 
showed  their  teeth  viciously.  *  It 's  very  nice,' 
Aratov  thought !  '  but  evil  is  coming ! '  '  This 
way,  pray,  this  way,'  the  steward  repeated 
again,  '  pray  come  into  the  garden  :  look  what 
fine  apples  you  have ! '  The  apples  certainly 
were  fine,  red,  and  round  ;  but  as  soon  as 
Aratov  looked  at  them,  they  withered  and  fell 
.  .  .  '  Evil  is  coming,'  he  thought.  '  And  here  is 
the  lake,'  lisped  the  steward,  '  isn't  it  blue  and 
smooth  ?  And  here 's  a  little  boat  of  gold  .  .  . 
will  you  get  into  it?  ...  it  floats  of  itself' 
*  I  won't  get  into  it,'  thought  Aratov,  '  evil  is 
coming  ! '  and  for  all  that  he  got  into  the  boat. 
At  the  bottom  lay  huddled  up  a  little  creature 
like  a  monkey ;  it  was  holding  in  its  paws  a 
glass  full  of  a  dark  liquid.  '  Pray  don't  be 
uneasy,'  the  steward  shouted  from  the  bank  .  .  . 
'It's  of  no  consequence!  It's  death!  Good 
91 


DREAM    TALES 

luck  to  you  ! '  The  boat  darted  swiftly  along 
.  .  .  but  all  of  a  sudden  a  hurricane  came 
swooping  down  on  it,  not  like  the  hurricane 
of  the  night  before,  soft  and  noiseless — no ;  a 
black,  awful,  howling  hurricane !  Everything 
was  confusion.  And  in  the  midst  of  the 
whirling  darkness  Aratov  saw  Clara  in  a 
stage-dress  ;  she  was  lifting  a  glass  to  her  lips, 
listening  to  shouts  of  '  Bravo !  bravo ! '  in  the 
distance,  and  some  coarse  voice  shouted  in 
Aratov's  ear :  '  Ah !  did  you  think  it  would 
all  end  in  a  farce  ?  No ;  it 's  a  tragedy !  a 
tragedy ! ' 

Trembling  all  over,  Aratov  awoke.  In  the 
room  it  was  not  dark.  ...  A  faint  light 
streamed  in  from  somewhere,  and  showed  every 
thing  in  the  gloom  and  stillness.  Aratov  did 
not  ask  himself  whence  this  light  came.  .  .  . 
He  felt  one  thing  only :  Clara  was  there,  in 
that  room  ...  he  felt  her  presence  ...  he 
was  again  and  for  ever  in  her  power ! 

The  cry  broke  from  his  lips,  '  Clara,  are  you 
here  ? ' 

'  Yes ! '  sounded  distinctly  in  the  midst  of  the 
lighted,  still  room. 

Aratov  inaudibly  repeated  his  question.  ,  ,  , 

'  Yes  ! '  he  heard  again. 

*  Then  I  want  to  see  you  ! '  he  cried,  and  he 
jumped  out  of  bed. 

92 


CLARA   MILITCH 

For  some  instants  he  stood  in  the  same 
place,  pressing  his  bare  feet  on  the  chill  floor. 
His  eyes  strayed  about.  'Where?  where?'  his 
lips  were  murmuring,  .  .  . 

Nothing  to  be  seen,  not  a  sound  to  be  heard. 
.  .  .  He  looked  round  him,  and  noticed  that 
the  faint  light  that  filled  the  room  came  from  a 
night-light,  shaded  by  a  sheet  of  paper  and  set 
in  a  corner,  probably  by  Platosha  while  he  was 
asleep.  He  even  discerned  the  smell  of  incense 
.  .  .  also,  most  likely,  the  work  of  her  hands. 

He  hurriedly  dressed  himself:  to  remain  in 
bed,  to  sleep,  was  not  to  be  thought  of  Then 
he  took  his  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
and  folded  his  arms.  The  sense  of  Clara's 
presence  was  stronger  in  him  than  it  had  ever 
been. 

And  now  he  began  to  speak,  not  loudly,  but 
with  solemn  deliberation,  as  though  he  were 
uttering  an  incantation. 

'  Clara,'  he  began,  '  if  you  are  truly  here,  if 
you  see  me,  if  you  hear  me — show  yourself!  .  .  . 
If  the  power  which  I  feel  over  me  is  truly  your 
power,  show  yourself!  If  you  understand  how 
bitterly  I  repent  that  I  did  not  understand  you, 
that  I  repelled  you — show  yourself!  If  what 
I  have  heard  was  truly  your  voice ;  if  the 
feeling  overmastering  me  is  love  ;  if  you  are  now 
convinced  that  I  love  you,  I,  who  till  now  have 
93 


DREAM   TALES 

neither  loved  nor  known  any  woman  ;  if  you 
know  that  since  your  death  I  have  come  to 
love  you  passionately,  inconsolably ;  if  you  do 
not  want  me  to  go  mad, — show  yourself,  Clara ! ' 

Aratov  had  hardly  uttered  this  last  word, 
when  all  at  once  he  felt  that  some  one  was 
swiftly  approaching  him  from  behind — as  that 
day  on  the  boulevard — and  laying  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  He  turned  round,  and  saw  no 
one.  But  the  sense  of  her  presence  had  grown 
so  distinct,  so  unmistakable,  that  once  more 
be  looked  hurriedly  about  him.  .  .  . 

What  was  that?  On  an  easy-chair,  two 
paces  from  him,  sat  a  woman,  all  in  black. 
Her  head  was  turned  away,  as  in  the  stereo- 
scope. ...  It  was  she!  It  was  Clara!  But 
what  a  stern,  sad  face  I 

Aratov  slowly  sank  on  his  knees.  Yes ;  he 
was  right,  then.  He  felt  neither  fear  nor 
delight,  not  even  astonishment  .  .  .  His  heart 
even  began  to  beat  more  quietly.  He  had  one 
sense,  one  feeling,  *  A.h !  at  last !  at  last !  * 

'  Clara,'  he  began,  in  a  faint  but  steady  voice, 
*  why  do  you  not  look  at  me  ?  I  know  that  it 
is  you  .  .  .  but  I  may  fancy  my  imagination 
has  created  an  image  like  that  one  .  .  .  ' — he 
pointed  towards  the  stereoscope — '  prove  to 
me  that  it  is  you.  .  .  .  Turn  to  me,  look  at  me, 
Clara  1 ' 

94 


CLARA    .MILITCH 

Clara's  hand  slowly  rose  .  .  .  and  fell  again. 

*  Clara  !  Clara  !  turn  to  me  ! ' 

And  Clara's  head  slowly  turned,  her  closed 
lids  opened,  and  her  dark  eyes  fastened  upon 
Aratov. 

He  fell  back  a  little,  and  uttered  a  single, 
long-drawn-out,  trembling  '  Ah  ! ' 

Clara  gazed  fixedly  at  him  .  .  .  but  her  eyes, 
her  features,  retained  their  former  mournfully 
stern,  almost  displeased  expression.  With  just 
that  expression  on  her  face  she  had  come  on  to 
the  platform  on  the  day  of  the  literary  matinee, 
before  she  caught  sight  of  Aratov,  And,  just 
as  then,  she  suddenly  flushed,  her  face  bright- 
ened, her  eyes  kindled,  and  a  joyful,  triumphant 
smile  parted  her  lips.  .  .  . 

'  I  have  come  1 '  cried  Aratov.  *  You  have 
conquered.  .  .  .  Take  me !  I  am  yours,  and 
you  are  mine ! ' 

He  flew  to  her  ;  he  tried  to  kiss  those  smiling, 
triumphant  lips,  and  he  kissed  them.  He  felt 
their  burning  touch :  he  even  felt  the  moist 
chill  of  her  teeth :  and  a  cry  of  triumph  rang 
through  the  half-dark  room. 

Platonida  Ivanovna,  running  in,  found  him  in 
a  swoon.  He  was  on  his  knees  ;  his  head  was 
lying  on  the  arm-chair  ;  his  outstretched  arms 
hung  powerless  ;  his  pale  face  was  radiant  with 
the  intoxication  of  boundless  bliss. 
95 


DREAM  TALES 

Platonida  Ivanovna  fairly  dropped  to  the 
ground  beside  him  ;  she  put  her  arms  round 
him,  faltered,  *  Yasha !  Yasha,  darling !  Yasha, 
dearest ! '  tried  to  lift  him  in  her  bony  arms  .  .  . 
he  did  not  stir.  Then  Platonida  Ivanovna  fell 
to  screaming  in  a  voice  unlike  her  own.  The 
servant  ran  in.  Together  they  somehow  roused 
him,  began  throwing  water  over  him — even 
took  it  from  the  holy  lamp  before  the  holy 
picture.  ... 

He  came  to  himself  But  in  response  to  his 
aunt's  questions  he  only  smiled,  and  with  such 
an  ecstatic  face  that  she  was  more  alarmed 
than  ever,  and  kept  crossing  first  herself  and 
then  him.  .  .  .  Aratov,  at  last,  put  aside  her 
hand,  and,  still  with  the  same  ecstatic  expression 
of  face,  said :  '  Why,  Platosha,  what  is  the 
matter  with  you  ? ' 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Yasha  darling  ?' 

*  With  me  ?  I  am  happy  .  .  .  happy,  Platosha 
.  .  .  that 's  what 's  the  matter  with  me.  And 
now  I  want  to  lie  down,  to  sleep.  .  .  .'  He 
tried  to  get  up,  but  felt  such  a  sense  of  weak- 
ness in  his  legs,  and  in  his  whole  body,  that  he 
could  not,  without  the  help  of  his  aunt  and  the 
servant,  undress  and  get  into  bed.  But  he  fell 
asleep  very  quickly,  still  with  the  same  look  of 
blissful  triumph  on  his  face.  Only  his  face  was 
very  pale. 

q6 


CLARA   MILITCH 


XVIII 


When  Platonida  Ivanovna  came  in  to  him 
next  morning,  he  was  still  in  the  same  position 
.  .  .  but  the  weakness  had  not  passed  off 
and  he  actually  preferred  to  remain  in  bed. 
Platonida  Ivanovna  did  not  like  the  pallor  of 
his  face  at  all.  '  Lord,  have  mercy  on  us  !  what 
is  it  ?  '  she  thought ;  '  not  a  drop  of  blood  in  his 
face,  refuses  broth,  lies  there  and  smiles,  and 
keeps  declaring  he 's  perfectly  well  I '  He  re- 
fused breakfast  too.  '  What  is  the  matter  with 
you,  Yasha?'  she  questioned  him;  'do  you 
mean  to  lie  in  bed  all  day  ? '  '  And  what  if  I 
did?'  Aratov  answered  gently.  This  very 
gentleness  again  Platonida  Ivanovna  did  not 
like  at  all.  Aratov  had  the  air  of  a  man  who 
has  discovered  a  great,  very  delightful  secret, 
and  is  jealously  guarding  it  and  keeping  it  to 
himself.  He  was  looking  forward  to  the  night, 
not  impatiently,  but  with  curiosity.  'What 
next?'  he  was  asking  himself;  'what  will 
happen?'  Astonishment,  incredulity,  he  had 
ceased  to  feel ;  he  did  not  doubt  that  he  was  in 
communication  with  Clara,  that  they  loved  one 
another  ,  .  .  that,  too,  he  had  no  doubt  about. 
Only  .  .  .  what  could  come  of  such  love  ?  He 
97  G 


DREAM   TALES 

recalled  that  kiss  .  .  .  and  a  delicious  shiver 
ran  swiftly  and  sweetly  through  all  his  limbs. 
'  Such  a  kiss,'  was  his  thought,  '  even  Romeo 
and  Juliet  knew  not !  But  next  time  I  will  be 
stronger.  ...  I  will  master  her.  .  .  .  She  shall 
come  with  a  wreath  of  tiny  roses  in  her  dark 
curls.  .  . ' . 

'  But  what  next  ?  We  cannot  live  together, 
can  we?  Then  must  I  die  so  as  to  be  with 
her  ?  Is  it  not  for  that  she  has  come  ;  and  is  it 
not  so  she  means  to  take  me  captive  ? 

'  Well ;  what  then  ?  If  I  must  die,  let  me 
die.  Death  has  no  terrors  for  me  now.  It 
cannot,  then,  annihilate  me  ?  On  the  contrary, 
only  tkus  and  iAere  can  I  be  happy  ...  as  I 
have  not  been  happy  in  life,  as  she  has  not.  . .  . 
We  are  both  pure  !     Oh,  that  kiss ! ' 

Platonida  Ivanovna  was  incessantly  coming 
into  Aratov's  room.  She  did  not  worry  him 
with  questions ;  she  merely  looked  at  him, 
muttered,  sighed,  and  went  out  again.  But  he 
refused  his  dinner  too :  this  was  really  too 
dreadful.  The  old  lady  set  off  to  an  acquaint- 
ance of  hers,  a  district  doctor,  in  whom  she 
placed  some  confidence,  simply  because  he  did 
not  drink  and  had  a  German  wife.  Aratov  was 
surprised  when  she  brought  him  in  to  see  him  ; 
but  Platonida  Ivanovna  so  earnestly  implored 
98 


CLARA   MILITCK 

her  darling  Yashenka  to  allow  Paramon  Para- 
monitch  (that  was  the  doctor's  name)  to 
examine  him  —  if  only  for  her  sake  —  that 
Aratov  consented.  Paramon  Paramonitch  felt 
his  pulse,  looked  at  his  tongue,  asked  a  ques- 
tion, and  announced  at  last  that  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  for  him  to  '  auscultate '  him.  Aratov 
was  in  such  an  amiable  frame  of  mind  that  he 
agreed  to  this  too.  The  doctor  delicately 
uncovered  his  chest,  delicately  tapped,  listened, 
hummed  and  hawed,  prescribed  some  drops 
and  a  mixture,  and,  above  all,  advised  him  to 
keep  quiet  and  avoid  any  excitement.  *  I  dare 
say  ! '  thought  Aratov ;  '  that  idea 's  a  little  too 
late,  my  good  friend  ! '  '  What  is  wrong  with 
Yasha?'  queried  Platonida  Ivanovna,  as  she 
slipped  a  three  -  rouble  note  into  Paramon 
Paramonitch's  hand  in  the  doorway.  The 
district  doctor,  who  like  all  modern  physicians 
— especially  those  who  wear  a  government  uni- 
form— was  fond  of  showing  off  with  scientific 
terms,  announced  that  her  nephew's  diagnosis 
showed  all  the  symptoms  of  neurotic  cardialgia, 
and  there  were  febrile  symptoms  also.  *  Speak 
plainer,  my  dear  sir ;  do,'  cut  in  Platonida 
Ivanovna  ;  '  don't  terrify  me  with  your  Latin  ; 
you  re  not  in  your  surgery  ! '  *  His  heart 's  not 
right,'  the  doctor  explained  ;  *  and,  well — there 's 
a  little  fever  too'  .   .  .   and  he  repeated  his 

QO 


DREAM   TALES 

advice  as  to  perfect  quiet  and  absence  of  ex- 
citement. '  But  there 's  no  danger,  is  there  ?  ' 
Platonida  Ivanovna  inquired  severely  ('You 
dare  rush  off  into  Latin  again/  she  implied.) 
'  No  need  to  anticipate  any  at  present ! ' 

The  doctor  went  away  .  .  .  and  Platonida 
Ivanovna  grieved.  .  .  .  She  sent  to  the  surgery, 
though,  for  the  medicine,  which  Aratov  would 
not  take,  in  spite  of  her  entreaties.  He  refused 
any  herb-tea  too.  '  And  why  are  you  so 
uneasy,  dear  ? '  he  said  to  her ;  *  I  assure  you, 
I  'm  at  this  moment  the  sanest  and  happiest 
man  in  the  whole  world  !  *  Platonida  Ivanovna 
could  only  shake  her  head.  Towards  evening 
he  grew  rather  feverish ;  and  still  he  insisted 
that  she  should  not  stay  in  his  room,  but  should 
go  to  sleep  in  her  own.  Platonida  Ivanovna 
obeyed  ;  but  she  did  not  undress,  and  did  not 
lie  down.  She  sat  in  an  arm-chair,  and  was  all 
the  while  listening  and  murmuring  her  prayers. 

She  was  just  beginning  to  doze,  when  sud- 
nedly  she  was  awakened  by  a  terrible  piercing 
shriek.  She  jumped  up,  rushed  into  Aratov's 
room,  and  as  on  the  night  before,  found  him 
lying  on  the  floor. 

But  he  did  not  come  to  himself  as  on  the 
previous  night,  in  spite  of  all  they  could  do. 
He  fell  the  same  night  into  a  high  fever,  com- 
plicated by  failure  of  the  heart 

lOO 


CLARA   MILITCn 

A  few  days  later  he  passed  away. 

A  strange  circumstance  attended  his  second 
fainting-fit.  When  they  hfted  him  up  and  laid 
him  on  his  bed,  in  his  clenched  right  hand  they 
found  a  small  tress  of  a  woman's  dark  hair. 
Where  did  this  lock  of  hair  come  from  ?  Anna 
Semyonovna  had  such  a  lock  of  hair  left  by 
Clara ;  but  what  could  induce  her  to  give 
Aratov  a  relic  so  precious  to  her  ?  Could  she 
have  put  it  somewhere  in  the  diary,  and  not 
have  noticed  it  when  she  lent  the  book  ? 

In  the  delirium  that  preceded  his  death, 
Aratov  spoke  of  himself  as  Romeo  .  .  .  after 
the  poison ;  spoke  of  marriage,  completed  and 
perfect;  of  his  knowing  now  what  rapture 
meant  Most  terrible  of  all  for  Platosha  was 
the  minute  when  Aratov,  coming  a  little  to 
himself,  and  seeing  her  beside  his  bed,  said  to 
her,  'Aunt,  what  are  you  crying  for? — because 
I  must  die }  But  don't  you  know  that  love  is 
stronger  than  death  ?  .  .  .  Death  !  death  !  where 
is  thy  sting?  You  should  not  weep,  but 
rejoice,  even  as  I  rejoice.  .  .  .' 

And  once  more  on  the  face  of  the  dying  man 
shone  out  the  rapturous  smile,  which  gave  the 
poor  old  woman  such  cruel  pain. 


lOI 


PHANTOMS 

•  One  instant  .  .  ,   and  thefatry  tale  is  over, 
And  once  again  tke  actual  fills  the  soul.  ,  ,  ,' — A.  Fkt. 


PHANTOMS 


For  a  long  time  I  could  not  get  to  sleep,  and 
kept  turning  from  side  to  side.  'Confound 
this  foolishness  about  table-turning ! '  I  thought. 
'  It  simply  upsets  one's  nerves.'  .  .  .  Drowsiness 
began  to  overtake  me  at  last.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  there 
were  the  faint  and  plaintive  sound  of  a  harp- 
string  in  the  room. 

I  raised  my  head.  The  moon  was  low  in  the 
sky,  and  looked  me  straight  in  the  face.  White 
as  chalk  lay  its  light  upon  the  floor.  .  .  ,  The 
strange  sound  was  distinctly  repeated. 

I  leaned  on  my  elbow.  A  faint  feeling  of 
awe  plucked  at  my  heart  A  minute  passed, 
another.  .  .  .  Somewhere,  far  away,  a  cock 
crowed  ;  another  answered  still  more  remote. 

I  let  my  head  sink  back  on  the  pillow.  '  See 
what  one  can  work  oneself  up  to,'  I  thought 
again,  .  .  .  '  there 's  a  singing  in  my  ears.' 

After  a  little  while  I  fell  asleep — or  I  thought 
los 


DREAM   TALES 

I  fell  asleep.  I  had  an  extraordinary  dream. 
I  fancied  I  was  lying  in  my  room,  in  my  bed — 
and  was  not  asleep,  could  not  even  close  my 
eyes.  And  again  I  heard  the  sound.  ...  I 
turned  over.  .  .  .  The  moonlight  on  the  floor 
began  softly  to  lift,  to  rise  up,  to  round  off 
slightly  above.  .  .  .  Before  me,  impalpable  as 
mist,  a  white  woman  was  standing  motionless. 

'  Who  are  you  ? '  I  asked  with  an  effort. 

A  voice  made  answer,  like  the  rustle  of 
leaves :  *  It  is  I  ...  I  ...  I  ...  I  have  come 
for  you.' 

'  For  me  ?     But  who  are  you  ? ' 

'  Come  by  night  to  the  edge  of  the  wood  where 
there  stands  an  old  oak-tree.     I  will  be  there.' 

I  tried  to  look  closely  into  the  face  of  the 
mysterious  woman — and  suddenly  I  gave  an 
involuntary  shudder :  there  was  a  chilly  breath 
upon  me.  And  then  I  was  not  lying  down, 
but  sitting  up  in  my  bed  ;  and  where,  as  I 
fancied,  the  phantom  had  stood,  the  moonlight 
lay  in  a  long  streak  of  white  upon  the  floor. 


II 

The  day  passed  somehow.    I  tried,  I  remember, 

to  read,  to  work  .  .  .  everything  was  a  failure. 

The   night   came.      My  heart   was   throbbing 

1 06 


PHANTOMS 

within  me,  as  though  it  expected  something. 
I  lay  down,  and  turned  with  my  face  to  the 
wall. 

'  Why  did  you  not  come  ? '  sounded  a  distinct 
whisper  in  the  room. 

I  looked  round  quickly. 

Again  she  .  .  .  again  the  mysterious  phantom. 
Motionless  eyes  in  a  motionless  face,  and  a 
gaze  full  of  sadness. 

'  Come  ! '  I  heard  the  whisper  again. 

'  I  will  come,'  I  replied  with  instinctive 
horror.  The  phantom  bent  slowly  forward, 
and  undulating  faintly  like  smoke,  melted  away 
altogether.  And  again  the  moon  shone  white 
and  untroubled  on  the  smooth  floor. 


Ill 

I  PASSED  the  day  in  unrest.  At  supper  I  drank 
almost  a  whole  bottle  of  wine,  and  all  but  went 
out  on  to  the  steps ;  but  I  turned  back  and 
flung  myself  into  my  bed.  My  blood  was 
pulsing  painfully. 

Again  the  sound  was  heard.  ...  I  started, 

but  did  not  look  round.     All  at  once  I  felt  that 

some  one  had  tight  hold  of  me  from  behind,  and 

was  whispering  in  my  very  ear  :  *  Come,  come, 

107 


DREAM   TALES 

come.'  .  .  .   Trembling  with  terror,  I  moaned 
out :  '  I  will  come  ! '  and  sat  up. 

A  woman  stood  stooping  close  to  my  very 
pillow.  She  smiled  dimly  and  vanished.  I 
had  time,  though,  to  make  out  her  face.  It 
seemed  to  me  I  had  seen  her  before — but 
where,  when?  I  got  up  late,  and  spent  the 
whole  day  wandering  about  the  country.  I 
went  to  the  old  oak  at  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
and  looked  carefully  all  around. 

Towards  evening  I  sat  at  the  open  window 
in  my  study.  My  old  housekeeper  set  a  cup  of 
tea  before  me,  but  I  did  not  touch  it.  ...  I 
kept  asking  myself  in  bewilderment :  *  Am  not 
I  going  out  of  my  mind  ? '  The  sun  had  just 
set :  and  not  the  sky  alone  was  flushed  with 
red  ;  the  whole  atmosphere  was  suddenly  filled 
with  an  almost  unnatural  purple.  The  leaves 
and  grass  never  stirred,  stiff  as  though  freshly 
coated  with  varnish.  In  their  stony  rigidity,  in 
the  vivid  sharpness  of  their  outlines,  in  this 
combination  of  intense  brightness  and  death- 
like stillness,  there  was  something  weird  and 
mysterious.  A  rather  large  grey  bird  suddenly 
flew  up  without  a  sound  and  settled  on  the 
very  window  sill.  ...  I  looked  at  it,  and  it 
looked  at  me  sideways  with  its  round,  dark 
eye.  'Were  you  sent  to  remind  me,  then?' 
I  wondered. 

io8 


PHANTOMS 

At  once  the  bird  fluttered  its  soft  wings,  and 
without  a  sound — as  before — flew  away.  I  sat 
a  long  time  still  at  the  window,  but  I  was  no 
longer  a  prey  to  uncertainty.  I  had,  as  it  were, 
come  within  the  enchanted  circle,  and  I  was 
borne  along  by  an  irresistible  though  gentle 
force,  as  a  boat  is  borne  along  by  the  current 
long  before  it  reaches  the  waterfall.  I  started 
up  at  last.  The  purple  had  long  vanished  from 
the  air,  the  colours  were  darkened,  and  the 
enchanted  silence  was  broken.  There  was  the 
flutter  of  a  gust  of  wind,  the  moon  came  out 
brighter  and  brighter  in  the  sky  that  was 
growing  bluer,  and  soon  the  leaves  of  the  trees 
were  weaving  patterns  of  black  and  silver  in 
her  cold  beams.  My  old  housekeeper  came 
into  the  study  with  a  lighted  candle,  but  there 
was  a  draught  from  the  window  and  the  flame 
went  out.  I  could  restrain  myself  no  longer. 
I  jumped  up,  clapped  on  my  cap,  and  set  off  to 
the  corner  of  the  forest,  to  the  old  oak-tree. 


IV 

This  oak  had,  many  years  before,  been  struck 
by  lightning;  the  top  of  the  tree  had  been 
shattered,  and  was  withered  up,  but  there  was 

109 


DREAM   TALES 

still  life  left  in  it  for  centuries  to  come.  As  I 
was  coming  up  to  it,  a  cloud  passed  over  the 
moon :  it  was  very  dark  under  its  thick 
branches.  At  first  I  noticed  nothing  special ; 
but  I  glanced  on  one  side,  and  my  heart  fairly 
failed  me — a  white  figure  was  standing  motion- 
less beside  a  tall  bush  between  the  oak  and  the 
forest.  My  hair  stood  upright  on  my  head, 
but  I  plucked  up  my  courage  and  went  towards 
the  forest. 

Yes,  it  was  she,  my  visitor  of  the  night.  As 
I  approached  her,  the  moon  shone  out  again. 
She  seemed  all,  as  it  were,  spun  out  of  half- 
transparent,  milky  mist, — through  her  face  I 
could  see  a  branch  faintly  stirring  in  the  wind ; 
only  the  hair  and  eyes  were  a  little  dark,  and 
on  one  of  the  fingers  of  her  clasped  hands  a 
slender  ring  shone  with  a  gleam  of  pale  gold. 
I  stood  still  before  her,  and  tried  to  speak  ;  but 
the  voice  died  away  in  my  throat,  though  it  was 
no  longer  fear  exactly  I  felt.  Her  eyes  were 
turned  upon  me ;  their  gaze  expressed  neither 
distress  nor  delight,  but  a  sort  of  lifeless  atten- 
tion. I  waited  to  see  whether  she  would  utter 
a  word,  but  she  remained  motionless  and  speech- 
less, and  still  gazed  at  me  with  her  deathly 
intent  eyes.     Dread  came  over  me  again. 

*  I  have  come ! '  I  cried  at  last  with  an  effort. 
My  voice  sounded  muflSed  and  strange  to  me. 


PHANTOMS 

*  I  love  you,'  I  heard  her  whisper. 

'  You  love  me  ! '  I  repeated  in  amazement. 

'  Give  yourself  up  to  me,'  was  whispered  me 
again  in  reply. 

'  Give  myself  up  to  you !  But  you  are  a 
phantom  ;  you  have  no  body  even.'  A  strange 
animation  came  upon  me.  '  What  are  you — 
smoke,  air,  vapour  ?  Give  myself  up  to  you ! 
Answer  me  first.  Who  are  you?  Have  you 
lived  upon  the  earth?  Whence  have  you 
come  ? ' 

'  Give  yourself  up  to  me.  I  will  do  you  no 
harm.     Only  say  two  words  :  "  Take  me." ' 

I  looked  at  her.  'What  is  she  saying?'  I 
thought.  '  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  And  how 
can  she  take  me  ?     Shall  I  try  ? ' 

'  Very  well,'  I  said,  and  unexpectedly  loudly, 
as  though  some  one  had  given  me  a  push  from 
behind  ;  '  take  me  ! ' 

I  had  hardly  uttered  these  words  when  the 
mysterious  figure,  with  a  sort  of  inward  laugh, 
which  set  her  face  quivering  for  an  instant, 
bent  forward,  and  stretched  out  her  arms  wide 
apart.  ...  I  tried  to  dart  away,  but  I  was 
already  in  her  power.  She  seized  me,  my  body 
rose  a  foot  from  the  ground,  and  we  both 
floated  smoothly  and  not  too  swiftly  over  the 
wet,  still  grass. 


Ill 


DREAM  TALES 


At  first  I  felt  giddy,  and  instinctively  I  closed 
my  eyes.  ...  A  minute  later  I  opened  them 
again.  We  were  floating  as  before ;  but  the 
forest  was  now  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Under  us 
stretched  a  plain,  spotted  here  and  there  with 
dark  patches.  With  horror  I  felt  that  we  had 
risen  to  a  fearful  height. 

'  I  am  lost ;  I  am  in  the  power  of  Satan,* 
flashed  through  me  like  lightning.  Till  that 
instant  the  idea  of  a  temptation  of  the  evil  one, 
of  the  possibility  of  perdition,  had  never  entered 
my  head.  We  still  whirled  on,  and  seemed  to 
be  mounting  higher  and  higher. 

'  Where  will  you  take  me  ? '  I  moaned  at  last. 

'Where  you  like,'  my  companion  answered. 
She  clung  close  to  me ;  her  face  was  almost 
resting  upon  my  face.  But  I  was  scarcely  con- 
scious of  her  touch. 

'  Let  me  sink  down  to  the  earth,  I  am  giddy 
at  this  height' 

'  Very  well ;  only  shut  your  eyes  and  hold 
your  breath.' 

I  obeyed,  and  at  once  felt  that  I  was  falling 
like  a  stone  flung  from  the  hand  .  .  .  the  air 
whistled   in  my  ears.      When    I    could   think 

112 


PHANTOMS 

again,  we  were  floating  smoothly  once  more 
just  above  the  earth,  so  that  we  caught  our  feet 
in  the  tops  of  the  tall  grass. 

*  Put  me  on  my  feet,'  I  began.  '  What 
pleasure  is  there  in  flying?     I'm  not  a  bird.' 

*  I  thought  you  would  like  it.  We  have  no 
other  pastime.' 

*  You  ?     Then  what  are  you  ? ' 
There  was  no  answer. 

'  You  don't  dare  to  tell  me  that  ?  * 
The  plaintive  sound   which   had   awakened 
me  the  first  night  quivered  in  my  ears.     Mean- 
while we  were  still,  scarcely  perceptibly,  moving 
in  the  damp  night  air, 

*  Let  me  go  ! '  I  said.  My  companion  moved 
slowly  away,  and  I  found  myself  on  my  feet. 
She  stopped  before  me  and  again  folded  her 
hands.  I  grew  more  composed  and  looked  into 
her  face ;  as  before  it  expressed  submissive 
sadness. 

'Where  are  we?'  I  asked.  I  did  not  recog- 
nise the  country  about  me. 

'  Far  from  your  home,  but  you  can  be  there 
in  an  instant.' 

'  How  can  that  be  done  ?  by  trusting  myself 
to  you  again  ?  ' 

'  I  have  done  you  no  harm  and  will  do  you 
none.  Let  us  fly  till  dawn,  that  is  all.  I  can 
bear  you  away  wherever  you  fancy — to  the 
113  H 


DREAM  TALES 

ends  of  the  earth.  Give  yourself  up  to  me ! 
Say  only :  "  Take  me ! "  * 

'  Well  .  .  .  take  me ! ' 

She  again  pressed  close  to  me,  again  my  feet 
left  the  earth —  and  we  were  flying. 


VI 

*  Which  way  ?  *  she  asked  me. 
'  Straight  on,  keep  straight  on.* 

*  But  here  is  a  forest' 

*  Lift  us  over  the  forest,  only  slower.' 

We  darted  upwards  like  a  wild  snipe  flying 
up  into  a  birch-tree,  and  again  flew  on  in  a 
straight  line.  Instead  of  grass,  we  caught 
glimpses  of  tree-tops  just  under  our  feet.  It 
was  strange  to  see  the  forest  from  above,  its 
bristling  back  lighted  up  by  the  moon.  It 
looked  like  some  huge  slumbering  wild  beast, 
and  accompanied  us  with  a  vast  unceasing 
murmur,  like  some  inarticulate  roar.  In  one 
place  we  crossed  a  small  glade;  intensely 
black  was  the  jagged  streak  of  shadow  along 
one  side  of  it.  Now  and  then  there  was  the 
plaintive  cry  of  a  hare  below  us ;  above  us 
the  owl  hooted,  plaintively  too ;  there  was  a 
scent  in  the  air  of  mushrooms,  buds,  and 
114 


PHANTOMS 

dawn-flowers ;  the  moon  fairly  flooded  every- 
thing on  all  sides  with  its  cold,  hard  light ;  the 
Pleiades  gleamed  just  over  our  heads.  And 
now  the  forest  was  left  behind  ;  a  streak  of 
fog  stretched  out  across  the  open  country ;  it 
was  the  river.  We  flew  along  one  of  its  banks, 
above  the  bushes,  still  and  weighed  down  with 
moisture.  The  river's  waters  at  one  moment 
glimmered  with  a  flash  of  blue,  at  another 
flowed  on  in  darkness,  as  it  were,  in  wrath. 
Here  and  there  a  delicate  mist  moved  strangely 
over  the  water,  and  the  water-lilies'  cups  shone 
white  in  maiden  pomp  with  every  petal  open 
to  its  full,  as  though  they  knew  their  safety  out 
of  reach.  I  longed  to  pick  one  of  them,  and 
behold,  I  found  myself  at  once  on  the  river's 
surface  .  .  .  The  damp  air  struck  me  an  angry 
blow  in  the  face,  just  as  I  broke  the  thick  stalk 
of  a  great  flower.  We  began  to  fly  across  from 
bank  to  bank,  like  the  water-fowl  we  were 
continually  waking  up  and  chasing  before  us. 
More  than  once  we  chanced  to  swoop  down  on 
a  family  of  wild  ducks,  settled  in  a  circle  on  an 
open  spot  among  the  reeds,  but  they  did  not 
stir ;  at  most  one  of  them  would  thrust  out 
its  neck  from  under  its  wing,  stare  at  us,  and 
anxiously  poke  its  beak  away  again  in  its 
fluffy  feathers,  and  another  faintly  quacked,  while 
its  body  twitched  a  little  all  over.     We  startled 


DREAM   TALES 

one  heron ;  it  flew  up  out  of  a  willow  bush, 
brandishing  its  legs  and  fluttering  its  wings 
with  clumsy  eagerness :  it  struck  me  as  re- 
markably like  a  German.  There  was  not  the 
splash  of  a  fish  to  be  heard,  they  too  were 
asleep.  I  began  to  get  used  to  the  sensation 
of  flying,  and  even  to  find  a  pleasure  in  it ; 
any  one  will  understand  me,  who  has  experi- 
enced flying  in  dreams.  I  proceeded  to  scruti- 
nise with  close  attention  the  strange  being,  by 
whose  good  offices  such  unlikely  adventures 
had  befallen  me. 


VII 


She  was  a  woman  with  a  small  un-Russian 
face.  Greyish -white,  half- transparent,  with 
scarcely  marked  shades,  she  reminded  one  of 
the  alabaster  figures  on  a  vase  lighted  up 
within,  and  again  her  face  seemed  familiar  to 
me. 

'  Can  I  speak  with  you  ? '  I  asked. 

'  Speak.' 

'  I  see  a  ring  on  your  finger ;  you  have  lived 
then  on  the  earth,  you  have  been  married  ? ' 

I  waited  .  .  .  There  was  no  answer. 
ii6 


PHANTOMS 

'  What  is  your  name,  or,  at  least,  what  was 
it?' 

'  Call  me  Alice.' 

'  Alice !  That 's  an  English  name !  Are  you 
an  Englishwoman  ?  Did  you  know  me  in 
former  days  ?  * 

'No.' 

*  Why  is  it  then  you  have  come  to  me  ? ' 

*  I  love  you.' 

*  And  are  you  content  ?  * 

'  Yes  ;  we  float,  we  whirl  together  in  the 
fresh  air.' 

'  Alice  !'  I  said  all  at  once,  'you  are  perhaps 
a  sinful,  condemned  soul  ? ' 

My  companion's  head  bent  towards  me.  '  I 
don't  understand  you,'  she  murmured. 

'  I  adjure  you  in  God's  name  .  .  .'  I  was 
beginning. 

'What  are  you  saying?'  she  put  in  in  per- 
plexity.    *  I  don't  understand.' 

I  fancied  that  the  arm  that  lay  like  a  chilly 
girdle  about  my  waist  softly  trembled  .  .  . 

*  Don't  be  afraid,'  said  Alice,  *  don't  be  afraid, 
my  dear  one ! '  Her  face  turned  and  moved 
towards  my  face.  ...  I  felt  on  my  lips  a 
strange  sensation,  like  the  faintest  prick  of  a 
soft  and  delicate  sting.  .  .  .  Leeches  might  prick 
so  in  mild  and  drowsy  mood. 


117 


DREAM  TALES 


VIII 


I  GLANCED  downwards.  We  had  now  risen 
again  to  a  considerable  height.  We  were  flying 
over  some  provincial  town  I  did  not  know, 
situated  on  the  side  of  a  wide  slope.  Churches 
rose  up  high  among  the  dark  mass  of  wooden 
roofs  and  orchards ;  a  long  bridge  stood  out  black 
at  the  bend  of  a  river  ;  everything  was  hushed, 
buried  in  slumber.  The  very  crosses  and 
cupolas  seemed  to  gleam  with  a  silent  brilli- 
ance ;  silently  stood  the  tall  posts  of  the  wells 
beside  the  round  tops  of  the  willows  ;  silently 
the  straight  whitish  road  darted  arrow-like  into 
one  end  of  the  town,  and  silently  it  ran  out 
again  at  the  opposite  end  on  to  the  dark  waste 
of  monotonous  fields. 

'  What  town  is  this  ? '  I  asked. 

•X  .  .  .' 

'  X  .  .  .  in  Y  .  ,  .  province  ? ' 

•Yes.' 

'  I  'm  a  long  distance  indeed  from  home  !  * 

*  Distance  is  not  for  us.' 

'Really?'     I  was  fired  by  a  sudden  reckless- 
ness.    *  Then  take  me  to  South  America ! 

'  To  America  I  cannot.     It 's  daylight  there 
by  now.* 

ii8 


PHANTOMS 

*And  we  are  night-birds.  Well,  anywhere, 
where  you  can,  only  far,  far  away.' 

'Shut  your  eyes  and  hold  your  breath,* 
answered  Alice,  and  we  flew  along  with  the 
speed  of  a  whirlwind.  With  a  deafening  noise 
the  air  rushed  into  my  ears.  We  stopped,  but 
the  noise  did  not  cease.  On  the  contrary,  it 
changed  into  a  sort  of  menacing  roar,  the  roll 
of  thunder  .  .  . 

*  Now  you  can  open  your  eyes,'  said  Alice. 


IX 


I  OBEYED  .  .  .  Good  God,  where  was  I  ? 

Overhead,  ponderous, smoke-like  storm-clouds; 
they  huddled,  they  moved  on  like  a  herd  of 
furious  monsters  .  .  .  and  there  below,  another 
monster;  a  raging,  yes,  raging,  sea  .  .  .  The 
white  foam  gleamed  with  spasmodic  fury,  and 
surged  up  in  hillocks  upon  it,  and  hurling  up 
shaggy  billows,  it  beat  with  a  sullen  roar  against 
a  huge  cliff,  black  as  pitch.  The  howling  of 
the  tempest,  the  chilling  gasp  of  the  storm- 
rocked  abyss,  the  weighty  splash  of  the 
breakers,  in  which  from  time  to  time  one 
fancied  something  like  a  wail,  like  distant 
119 


DREAM  TALES 

cannon-shots,  like  a  bell  ringing — the  tearing 
crunch  and  grind  of  the  shingle  on  the  beach, 
the  sudden  shriek  of  an  unseen  gull,  on  the 
murky  horizon  the  disabled  hulk  of  a  ship — on 
every  side  death,  death  and  horror  .  .  .  Giddi- 
ness overcame  me,  and  I  shut  my  eyes  again 
with  a  sinking  heart  .  .  . 

*  What  is  this  ?     Where  are  we  ? ' 

*  On  the  south  coast  of  the  Isle  of  Wight 
opposite  the  Blackgang  cliff  where  ships  are  so 
often  wrecked,'  said  Alice,  speaking  this  time 
with  peculiar  distinctness,  and  as  it  seemed  to 
me  with  a  certain  malignant  pleasure  .  .  . 

'  Take  me  away,  away  from  here  .  .  .  home ! 
home ! '  I  shrank  up,  hid  my  face  in  my 
hands  ...  I  felt  that  we  were  moving  faster 
than  before  ;  the  wind  now  was  not  roaring  or 
moaning,  it  whistled  in  my  hair,  in  my  clothes 
...  I  caught  my  breath  .  .  . 

'  Stand  on  your  feet  now,'  I  heard  Alice's 
voice  saying.  I  tried  to  master  myself,  to  re- 
gain consciousness  ...  I  felt  the  earth  under 
the  soles  of  my  feet,  and  I  heard  nothing,  as 
though  everything  had  swooned  away  about 
me  ,  .  .  only  in  my  temples  the  blood 
throbbed  irregularly,  and  my  head  was  still 
giddy  with  a  faint  ringing  in  my  ears.  I  drew 
myself  up  and  opened  my  eyes. 


I20 


PHANTOMS 


We  were  on  the  bank  of  my  pond.  Straight 
before  me  there  were  glimpses  through  the 
pointed  leaves  of  the  willows  of  its  broad 
surface  with  threads  of  fluffy  mist  clinging 
here  and  there  upon  it  To  the  right  a  field 
of  rye  shone  dimly ;  on  the  left  stood  up  my 
orchard  trees,  tall,  rigid,  drenched  it  seemed 
in  dew  .  .  .  The  breath  of  the  morning  was 
already  upon  them.  Across  the  pure  grey 
sky  stretched  like  streaks  of  smoke,  two  or 
three  slanting  clouds ;  they  had  a  yellowish 
tinge,  the  first  faint  glow  of  dawn  fell  on  them  ; 
one  could  not  say  whence  it  came;  the  eye 
could  not  detect  on  the  horizon,  which  was 
gradually  growing  lighter,  the  spot  where  the 
sun  was  to  rise.  The  stars  had  disappeared ; 
nothing  was  astir  yet,  though  everything  was 
already  on  the  point  of  awakening  in  the 
enchanted  stillness  of  the  morning  twilight. 

'  Morning !  see,  it  is  morning ! '  cried  Alice  in 
my  ear.     *  Farewell  till  to-morrow.' 

I  turned  round  .  .  .  Lightly  rising  from  the 
earth,  she  floated  by,  and  suddenly  she  raised 
both  hands  above  her  head.  The  head  and 
hands  and  shoulders  glowed  for  an  instant 
with    warm,    corporeal    light ;     living    sparks 

121 


DREAM   TALES 

gleamed  in  the  dark  eyes ;  a  smile  of  mys- 
terious tenderness  stirred  the  reddening  lips. 
...  A  lovely  woman  had  suddenly  arisen 
before  me.  .  .  .  But  as  though  dropping  into 
a  swoon,  she  fell  back  instantly  and  melted 
away  like  vapour. 

I  remained  passive. 

When  I  recovered  myself  and  looked  round 
me,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  corporeal,  pale- 
rosy  colour  that  had  flitted  over  the  figure  of 
my  phantom  had  not  yet  vanished,  and  was 
enfolding  me,  diffused  in  the  air.  ...  It  was 
the  flush  of  dawn.  All  at  once  I  was  conscious 
of  extreme  fatigue  and  turned  homewards.  As 
I  passed  the  poultry-yard,  I  heard  the  first 
morning  cackling  of  the  geese  (no  birds  wake 
earlier  than  they  do)  ;  along  the  roof  at  the  end 
of  each  beam  sat  a  rook,  and  they  were  all 
busily  and  silently  pluming  themselves,  stand- 
ing out  in  sharp  outline  against  the  milky  sky. 
From  time  to  time  they  all  rose  at  once,  and 
after  a  short  flight,  settled  again  in  a  row,  with- 
out uttering  a  caw.  .  .  .  From  the  wood  close 
by  came  twice  repeated  the  drowsy,  fresh  chuck- 
chuck  of  the  black-cock,  beginning  to  fly  into 
the  dewy  grass,  overgrown  by  brambles.  .  .  . 
With  a  faint  tremor  all  over  me  I  made  my 
way  to  my  bed,  and  soon  fell  into  a  sound 
sleep. 

122 


PHANTOMS 


XI 


The  next  night,  as  I  was  approaching  the  old 
oak,  Alice  moved  to  meet  me,  as  if  I  were  an 
old  friend.  I  was  not  afraid  of  her  as  I  had 
been  the  day  before,  I  was  almost  rejoiced  at 
seeing  her  ;  I  did  not  even  attempt  to  com- 
prehend what  was  happening  to  me;  I  was 
simply  longing  to  fly  farther  to  interesting 
places. 

Alice's  arm  again  twined  about  me,  and  we 
took  flight  again. 

*  Let  us  go  to  Italy,'  I  whispered  in  her  ear. 

*  Wherever  you  wish,  my  dear  one,'  she 
answered  solemnly  and  slowly,  and  slowly  and 
solemnly  she  turned  her  face  towards  me.  It 
struck  me  as  less  transparent  than  on  the  eve  ; 
more  womanlike  and  more  imposing ;  it  re- 
called to  me  the  being  I  had  had  a  glimpse  of 
in  the  early  dawn  at  parting. 

'  This  night  is  a  great  night,'  Alice  went  on. 
'  It  comes  rarely — when  seven  times  thirteen  .  . .' 

At  this  point  I  could  not  catch  a  few  words. 

'  To-night  we  can  see  what  is  hidden  at  other 
times.' 

*  Alice ! '  I  implored,  '  but  who  are  you,  tell 
me  at  last  ? ' 

133 


DREAM  TALES 

Silently  she  lifted  her  long  white  hand.  In 
the  dark  sky,  where  her  finger  was  pointing,  a 
comet  flashed,  a  reddish  streak  among  the  tiny 
stars. 

'  How  am  I  to  understand  you  ? '    I  began, 

*  Or,  as  that  comet  floats  between  the  planets 
and  the  sun,  do  you  float  among  men  ...  or 
what?' 

But  Alice's  hand  was  suddenly  passed  before 
my  eyes  ...  It  was  as  though  a  white  mist 
from  the  damp  valley  had  fallen  on  me  .  .  . 

'To  Italy!   to  Italy!'    I  heard  her  whisper. 

*  This  night  is  a  great  night  1 ' 


XII 

The  mist  cleared  away  from  before  my  eyes, 
and  I  saw  below  me  an  immense  plain.  But 
already,  by  the  mere  breath  of  the  warm  soft 
air  upon  my  cheeks,  I  could  tell  I  was  not  in 
Russia;  and  the  plain,  too,  was  not  like  our 
Russian  plains.  It  was  a  vast  dark  expanse, 
apparently  desert  and  not  overgrown  with 
grass ;  here  and  there  over  its  whole  extent 
gleamed  pools  of  water,  like  broken  pieces  of 
looking-glass ;  in  the  distance  could  be  dimly 
descried  a  noiseless  motionless  sea.  Great 
124 


PHANTOMS 

stars  shone  bright  in  the  spaces  between  the 
big  beautiful  clouds  ;  the  murmur  of  thousands, 
subdued  but  never-ceasing,  rose  on  all  sides, 
and  very  strange  was  this  shrill  but  drowsy- 
chorus,  this  voice  of  the  darkness  and  the 
desert  .  .  . 

'  The  Pontine  marshes,'  said  Alice.  '  Do  you 
hear  the  frogs  ?  do  you  smell  the  sulphur  ? ' 

*  The  Pontine  marshes  .  .  . '  I  repeated,  and 
a  sense  of  grandeur  and  of  desolation  came 
upon  me.  *  But  why  have  you  brought  me 
here,  to  this  gloomy  forsaken  place?  Let  us 
fly  to  Rome  instead.' 

*  Rome  is  near,'  answered  Alice.  ...  *  Pre- 
pare yourself ! ' 

We  sank  lower,  and  flew  along  an  ancient 
Roman  road.  A  bullock  slowly  lifted  from 
the  slimy  mud  its  shaggy  monstrous  head, 
with  short  tufts  of  bristles  between  its  crooked 
backward-bent  horns.  It  turned  the  whites  of 
its  dull  malignant  eyes  askance,  and  sniffed  a 
heavy  snorting  breath  into  its  wet  nostrils,  as 
though  scenting  us. 

*  Rome,  Rome  is  near  ...  *  whispered  Alice. 
*  Look,  look  in  front.  .  .  . ' 

I  raised  my  eyes. 

What  was  the  blur  of  black  on  the  edge  of 
the  night  sky  ?  Were  these  the  lofty  arches  of 
an  immense  bridge  ?  What  river  did  it  span  ? 
125 


DREAM   TALES 

Why  was  it  broken  down  in  parts  ?  No,  it  was 
not  a  bridge,  it  was  an  ancient  aqueduct.  All 
around  was  the  holy  ground  of  the  Campagna, 
and  there,  in  the  distance,  the  Albanian  hills, 
and  their  peaks  and  the  grey  ridge  of  the  old 
aqueduct  gleamed  dimly  in  the  beams  of  the 
rising  moon.  .  .  . 

We  suddenly  darted  upwards,  and  floated  in 
the  air  before  a  deserted  ruin.  No  one  could 
have  said  what  it  had  been :  sepulchre,  palace, 
or  castle.  .  .  .  Dark  ivy  encircled  it  all  over  in 
its  deadly  clasp,  and  below  gaped  yawning  a 
half-ruined  vault.  A  heavy  underground  smell 
rose  in  my  face  from  this  heap  of  tiny  closely- 
fitted  stones,  whence  the  granite  facing  of  the 
wall  had  long  crumbled  away. 

*  Here,'  Alice  pronounced,  and  she  raised  her 
hand :  *  Here !  call  aloud  three  times  running 
the  name  of  the  mighty  Roman  ! ' 

*  What  will  happen  ? ' 

*  You  will  see.' 

I  wondered.  '  Divus  Cuius  Julius  Caesar  I 
I  cried  suddenly  ;  *  divus  Caius  Julius  Caesar  I 
I  repeated  deliberately ;  '  Caesar  I  * 


126 


PHANTOMS 


XIII 


The  last  echoes  of  my  voice  had  hardly  died 
away,  when  I  heard  .  .  . 

It  is  difficult  to  say  what  I  did  hear.  At 
first  there  reached  me  a  confused  din  the  ear 
could  scarcely  catch,  the  endlessly- repeated 
clamour  of  the  blare  of  trumpets,  and  the 
clapping  of  hands.  It  seemed  that  somewhere, 
immensely  far  away,  at  some  fathomless  depth, 
a  multitude  innumerable  was  suddenly  astir, 
and  was  rising  up,  rising  up  in  agitation,  calling 
to  one  another,  faintly,  as  if  muffled  in  sleep, 
the  suffocating  sleep  of  ages.  Then  the  air 
began  moving  in  dark  currents  over  the  ruin. 
.  .  .  Shades  began  flitting  before  me,  myriads 
of  shades,  millions  of  outlines,  the  rounded 
curves  of  helmets,  the  long  straight  lines  of 
lances ;  the  moonbeams  were  broken  into 
momentary  gleams  of  blue  upon  these  helmets 
and  lances,  and  all  this  army,  this  multitude, 
came  closer  and  closer,  and  grew,  in  more  and 
more  rapid  movement.  .  .  .  An  indescribable 
force,  a  force  fit  to  set  the  whole  world  moving, 
could  be  felt  in  it;  but  not  one  figure  stood 
out  clearly.  .  .  .  And  suddenly  I  fancied  a  sort 
of  tremor  ran  all  round,  as  if  it  were  the  rush 
and  rolling   apart  of  some   huge  waves.   .   .  , 

127 


DREAM   TALES 

*  Caesar,  Caesar  venit ! '  sounded  voices,  like 
the  leaves  of  a  forest  when  a  storm  has  sud- 
denly broken  upon  it  ...  a  muffled  shout 
thundered  through  the  multitude,  and  a  pale 
stern  head,  in  a  wreath  of  laurel,  with  down- 
cast eyelids,  the  head  of  the  emperor,  began 
slowly  to  rise  out  of  the  ruin.  .  .  . 

There  is  no  word  in  the  tongue  of  man  to 
express  the  horror  which  clutched  at  my  heart. 
...  I  felt  that  were  that  head  to  raise  its  eyes, 
to  part  its  lips,  I  must  perish  on  the  spot ! 
'  Alice ! '  I  moaned,  *  I  won't,  I  can't,  I  don't 
want  Rome,  coarse,  terrible  Rome.  .  .  .  Away, 
away  from  here ! ' 

'  Coward ! '  she  whispered,  and  away  we 
flew.  I  just  had  time  to  hear  behind  me  the 
iron  voice  of  the  legions,  like  a  peal  of  thunder 
.  .  .  then  all  was  darkness. 


XIV 

'  Look  round,'  Alice  said   to   me,  '  and  don't 
fear.' 

I    obeyed — and,   I   remember,  my  first   im- 
pression was  so  sweet  that  I  could  only  sigh. 
A  sort  of  smoky-grey,  silvery-soft,  half-light, 
half-mist,  enveloped  me  on  all  sides.     At  first 
128 


PHANTOMS 

I  made  out  nothing  :  I  was  dazzled  by  this 
azure  brilliance  ;  but  little  by  little  began  to 
emerge  the  outlines  of  beautiful  mountains  and 
forests ;  a  lake  lay  at  my  feet,  with  stars 
quivering  in  its  depths,  and  the  musical  plash 
of  waves.  The  fragrance  of  orange  flowers 
met  me  with  a  rush,  and  with  it — arid  also  as 
it  were  with  a  rush — came  floating  the  pure 
powerful  notes  of  a  woman's  young  voice. 
This  fragrance,  this  music,  fairly  drew  me 
downwards,  and  I  began  to  sink  ...  to  sink 
down  towards  a  magnificent  marble  palace, 
which  stood,  invitingly  white,  in  the  midst  of 
a  wood  of  cypress.  The  music  flowed  out 
from  its  wide  open  windows,  the  waves  of  the 
lake,  flecked  with  the  pollen  of  flowers,  splashed 
upon  its  walls,  and  just  opposite,  all  clothed  in 
the  dark  green  of  orange  flowers  and  laurels, 
enveloped  in  shining  mist,  and  studded  with 
statues,  slender  columns,  and  the  porticoes  of 
temples,  a  lofty  round  island  rose  out  of  the 
water.  .  .  . 

'  Isola  Bella!*  said  Alice.  .  .  .  'Lago 
Maggiore.  .  .  .' 

I  murmured  only  *Ah!'  and  continued  to 
drop.  The  woman's  voice  sounded  louder  and 
clearer  in  the  palace ;  I  was  irresistibly  drawn 
towards  it.  ...  I  wanted  to  look  at  the  face  of 
the  singer,  who,  in  such  music,  gave  voice  to 
129  I 


DREAM   TALES 

such    a    night.      We    stood    still    before    the 
window. 

In  the  centre  of  a  room,  furnished  in  the 
style  of  Pompeii,  and  more  like  an  ancient 
temple  than  a  modern  drawing-room,  sur- 
rounded by  Greek  statues,  Etruscan  vases, 
rare  plants,  and  precious  stuffs,  lighted  up  by 
the  soft  radiance  of  two  lamps  enclosed  in 
crystal  globes,  a  young  woman  was  sitting  at 
the  piano.  Her  head  slightly  bowed  and  her 
eyes  half-closed,  she  sang  an  Italian  melody ; 
she  sang  and  smiled,  and  at  the  same  time  her 
face  wore  an  expression  of  gravity,  almost  of 
sternness  ...  a  token  of  perfect  rapture ! 
She  smiled  .  .  .  and  Praxiteles'  Faun,  indolent, 
youthful  as  she,  effeminate,  and  voluptuous, 
seemed  to  smile  back  at  her  from  a  corner, 
under  the  branches  of  an  oleander,  across  the 
delicate  smoke  that  curled  upwards  from  a 
bronze  censer  on  an  antique  tripod.  The 
beautiful  singer  was  alone.  Spell-bound  by 
the  music,  her  beauty,  the  splendour  and  sweet 
fragrance  of  the  night,  moved  to  the  heart  by 
the  picture  of  this  youthful,  serene,  and  un- 
troubled happiness,  I  utterly  forgot  my  com- 
panion, I  forgot  the  strange  way  in  which  I 
had  become  a  witness  of  this  life,  so  remote, 
so  completely  apart  from  me,  and  I  was  on  the 
point  of  tapping  at  the  window,  of  speaking  .  .  , 
130 


PHANTOMS 

I  was  set  trembling  all  over  by  a  violent 
shock — ^just  as  though  I  had  touched  a  galvanic 
battery.  I  looked  round.  .  .  .  The  face  of 
Alice  was — for  all  its  transparency — dark  and 
menacing ;  there  was  a  dull  glow  of  anger  in 
her  eyes,  which  were  suddenly  wide  and 
round.  .  .  . 

'  Away  ! '  she  murmured  wrathfully,  and  again 
whirling  and  darkness  and  giddiness.  .  .  .  Only 
this  time  not  the  shout  of  legions,  but  the  voice 
of  the  singer,  breaking  on  a  high  note,  lingered 
in  my  ears.  .  .  . 

We  stopped.  The  high  note,  the  same  note 
was  still  ringing  and  did  not  cease  to  ring  in 
my  ears,  though  I  was  breathing  quite  a  different 
air,  a  different  scent  ...  a  breeze  was  blowing 
upon  me,  fresh  and  invigorating,  as  though  from 
a  great  river,  and  there  was  a  smell  of  hay, 
smoke  and  hemp.  The  long-drawn-out  note 
was  followed  by  a  second,  and  a  third,  but 
with  an  expression  so  unmistakable,  a  trill  so 
familiar,  so  peculiarly  our  own,  that  I  said  to 
myself  at  once :  *  That 's  a  Russian  singing 
a  Russian  song ! '  and  at  that  very  instant 
everything  grew  clear  about  me. 


131 


DREAM  TALES 


XV 


We  found  ourselves  on  a  flat  riverside  plain. 
To  the  left,  newly-mown  meadows,  with  rows  of 
huge  hayricks,  stretched  endlessly  till  they  were 
lost  in  the  distance ;  to  the  right  extended  the 
smooth  surface  of  a  vast  mighty  river,  till  it  too 
was  lost  in  the  distance.  Not  far  from  the 
bank,  big  dark  barges  slowly  rocked  at  anchor, 
slightly  tilting  their  slender  masts,  like  pointing 
fingers.  From  one  of  these  barges  came  float- 
ing up  to  me  the  sounds  of  a  liquid  voice,  and 
a  fire  was  burning  in  it,  throwing  a  long  red 
light  that  danced  and  quivered  on  the  water. 
Here  and  there,  both  on  the  river  and  in  the 
fields,  other  lights  were  glimmering,  whether 
close  at  hand  or  far  away,  the  eye  could  not  dis- 
tinguish ;  they  shrank  together,  then  suddenly 
lengthened  out  into  great  blurs  of  light ;  grass- 
hoppers innumerable  kept  up  an  unceasing 
churr,  persistent  as  the  frogs  of  the  Pontine 
marshes;  and  across  the  cloudless,  but  dark 
lowering  sky  floated  from  time  to  time  the  cries 
of  unseen  birds. 

*  Are  we  in  Russia  ?  *  I  asked  of  Alice. 

*  It  is  the  Volga,'  she  answered. 

We  flew  along  the  river-bank.     'Why  did 
132 


PHANTOMS 

you  tear  me  away  from  there,  from  that  lovely 
country  ? '  I  began.  '  Were  you  envious,  or  was 
it  jealousy  in  you  ?  * 

The  lips  of  Alice  faintly  stirred,  and  again 
there  was  a  menacing  light  in  her  eyes.  .  .  . 
But  her  whole  face  grew  stony  again  at  once. 

'  I  want  to  go  home,'  I  said. 

'  Wait  a  little,  wait  a  little,'  answered  Alice. 
'  To-night  is  a  great  night.  It  will  not  soon 
return.  You  may  be  a  spectator.  .  .  .  Wait  a 
little.' 

And  we  suddenly  flew  across  the  Volga  in  a 
slanting  direction,  keeping  close  to  the  water's 
surface,  with  the  low  impetuous  flight  of  swallows 
before  a  storm.  The  broad  waves  murmured 
heavily  below  us,  the  sharp  river  breeze  beat 
upon  us  with  its  strong  cold  wing  .  .  .  the  high 
right  bank  began  soon  to  rise  up  before  us  in 
the  half-darkness.  Steep  mountains  appeared 
with  great  ravines  between.  We  came  near  to 
them. 

'  Shout  :  "  Lads,  to  the  barges  !  "  '  Alice 
whispered  to  me.  I  remembered  the  terror  I 
had  suffered  at  the  apparition  of  the  Roman 
phantoms.  I  felt  weary  and  strangely  heavy,  as 
though  my  heart  were  ebbing  away  within  me. 
I  wished  not  to  utter  the  fatal  words  ;  I  knew 
beforehand  that  in  response  to  them  there 
would  appear,  as  in  the  wolves'  valley  of  the 
133 


DREAM  TALES 


Freischutz,  some  monstrous  thing ;  but  my 
lips  parted  against  my  will,  and  in  a  weak 
forced  voice  I  shouted,  also  against  my  will : 
'  Lads,  to  the  barges  1 ' 


XVI 

At  first  all  was  silence,  even  as  it  was  at  the 
Roman  ruins,  but  suddenly  I  heard  close  to  my 
very  ear  a  coarse  bargeman's  laugh,  and  with  a 
moan  something  dropped  into  the  water  and  a 
gurgling  sound  followed.  ...  I  looked  round : 
no  one  was  anywhere  to  be  seen,  but  from  the 
bank  the  echo  came  bounding  back,  and  at 
once  from  all  sides  rose  a  deafening  din.  There 
was  a  medley  of  everything  in  this  chaos  of 
sound :  shouting  and  whining,  furious  abuse 
and  laughter,  laughter  above  everything ;  the 
plash  of  oars  and  the  cleaving  of  hatchets,  a 
crash  as  of  the  smashing  of  doors  and  chests, 
the  grating  of  rigging  and  wheels,  and  the 
neighing  of  horses,  and  the  clang  of  the  alarm 
bell  and  the  clink  of  chains,  the  roar  and 
crackle  of  fire,  drunken  songs  and  quick,  gnash- 
ing chatter,  weeping  inconsolable,  plaintive 
despairing  prayers,  and  shouts  of  command, 
the  dying  gasp  and  the  reckless  whistle,  the 
guffaw  and  the  thud  of  the  dance  .  .  .  'Kill 
134 


PHANTOMS 

them!  Hang  them!  Drown  them!  rip  them 
up  !  bravo  !  bravo  !  don't  spare  them  ! '  could  be 
heard  distinctly  ;  I  could  even  hear  the  hurried 
breathing  of  men  panting.  And  meanwhile  all 
around,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  nothing 
could  be  seen,  nothing  was  changed  ;  the  river 
rolled  by  mysteriously,  almost  sullenly,  the 
very  bank  seemed  more  deserted  and  desolate 
— and  that  was  all. 

I  turned  to  Alice,  but  she  put  her  finger  to 
her  lips.  .  .  . 

'  Stepan  Timofeitch !  Stepan  Timofeitch  is 
coming  ! '  was  shouted  noisily  all  round  ;  *  he  is 
coming,  our  father,  our  ataman,  our  bread- 
giver  ! '  As  before  I  saw  nothing  but  it  seemed 
to  me  as  though  a  huge  body  were  moving 
straight  at  me.  ...  *  Frolka  I  where  art  thou, 
dog  ? '  thundered  an  awful  voice.  '  Set  fire  to 
every  corner  at  once — and  to  the  hatchet  with 
them,  the  white-handed  scoundrels  ! ' 

I  felt  the  hot  breath  of  the  flame  close  by, 
and  tasted  the  bitter  savour  of  the  smoke  ;  and 
at  the  same  instant  something  warm  like  blood 
spurted  over  my  face  and  hands.  ...  A  savage 
roar  of  laughter  broke  out  all  round.  .  .  , 

I    lost   consciousness,    and  when  I  came  to 
myself,  Alice  and  I  were  gliding  along  beside 
the  familiar   bushes  that   bordered   my  wood, 
straight  towards  the  old  oak.  .  .  , 
135 


DREAM   TALES 

'  Do  you  see  the  little  path  ?  *  Alice  said  to 
me,  'where  the  moon  shines  dimly  and  where 
are  two  birch-trees  overhanging  ?  Will  you  go 
there  ? ' 

But  I  felt  so  shattered  and  exhausted  that  I 
could  only  say  in  reply :  *  Home !  home ! ' 

*  You  are  at  home,'  replied  Alice. 

I  was  in  fact  standing  at  the  very  door  of  my 
house — alone.  Alice  had  vanished.  The  yard- 
dog  was  about  to  approach,  he  scanned  me 
suspiciously — and  with  a  bark  ran  away. 

With  difficulty  I  dragged  myself  up  to  my 
bed  and  fell  asleep  without  undressing. 


XVII 

All  the  following  morning  my  head  ached, 
and  I  could  scarcely  move  my  legs ;  but  I  cared 
little  for  my  bodily  discomfort;  I  was  devoured 
by  regret,  overwhelmed  with  vexation. 

I  was  excessively  annoyed  with  myself. 
'  Coward  ! '  I  repeated  incessantly ;  '  yes — Alice 
was  right.  What  was  I  frightened  of?  how 
could  I  miss  such  an  opportunity? ...  I  might 
have  seen  Caesar  himself — and  I  was  senseless 
with  terror,  I  whimpered  and  turned  away,  like 
a  child  at  the  sight  of  the  rod.  Razin,  now — 
136 


PHANTOMS 

that's  another  matter.  As  a  nobleman  and 
landowner  .  ,  .  though,  indeed,  even  then  what 
had  I  really  to  fear  ?     Coward  !  coward ! '  .  .  . 

*  But  wasn't  it  all  a  dream  ? '  I  asked  myself 
at  last     I  called  my  housekeeper. 

*  Marfa,  what  o'clock  did  I  go  to  bed  yester- 
day— do  you  remember  ? ' 

'  Why,  who  can  tell,  master  ?  . . .  Late  enough, 
surely.  Before  it  was  quite  dark  you  went  out 
of  the  house ;  and  you  were  tramping  about  in 
your  bedroom  when  the  night  was  more  than 
half  over.  Just  on  morning — yes.  And  this  is 
the  third  day  it 's  been  the  same.  You  've  some- 
thing on  your  mind,  it 's  easy  to  see.' 

'Aha-ha!'  I  thought  'Then  there's  no 
doubt  about  the  flying.  Well,  and  how  do  I 
look  to-day  ? '  I  added  aloud. 

'  How  do  you  look  ?  Let  me  have  a  look 
at  you.  You've  got  thinner  a  bit  Yes,  and 
you  're  pale,  master ;  to  be  sure,  there 's  not  a 
drop  of  blood  in  your  face.' 

I  felt  a  slight  twinge  of  uneasiness  ...  I 
dismissed  Marfa. 

'  Why,  going  on  like  this,  you  '11  die,  or  gc 
out  of  your  mind,  perhaps,'  I  reasoned  with 
myself,  as  I  sat  deep  in  thought  at  the  window. 
*  I  must  giye  it  all  up.  It 's  dangerous  And 
now  my  heart  beats  so  strangely.  And  when  I 
fly,  I  keep  feeling  as  though  some  one  were 
137 


DREAM   TALES 

sucking  at  it,  or  as  it  were  drawing  something 
out  of  it — as  the  spring  sap  is  drawn  out  of  the 
birch-tree,  if  you  stick  an  axe  into  it.  I  'm 
sorry,  though.  And  Alice  too.  .  .  .  She  is 
playing  cat  and  mouse  with  me  .  .  .  still  she 
can  hardly  wish  me  harm.  I  will  give  myself 
up  to  her  for  the  last  time — and  then.  .  .  .  But 
if  she  is  drinking  my  blood?  That's  awful. 
Besides,  such  rapid  locomotion  cannot  fail  to  be 
injurious ;  even  in  England,  I  'm  told,  on  the 
railways,  it 's  against  the  law  to  go  more  than 
one  hundred  miles  an  hour.  .  .  .' 

So  I  reasoned  with  myself — but  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  I  was  already  at  my 
post  before  the  old  oak-tree. 


XVIII 

The  night  was  cold,  dull,  grey ;  there  was  a 
feeling  of  rain  in  the  air.  To  my  amazement,  I 
found  no  one  under  the  oak ;  I  walked  several 
times  round  it,  went  up  to  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  turned  back  again,  peered  anxiously  into 
the  darkness.  .  .  ,  All  was  emptiness.  I  waited 
a  little,  then  several  times  I  uttered  the  name, 
Alice,  each  time  a  little  louder,  .  .  .  but  she 
did  not  appear.  I  felt  sad,  almost  sick  at 
138 


PHANTOMS 

heart ;  my  previous  apprehensions  vanished  ;  I 
could  not  resign  myself  to  the  idea  that  my 
companion  would  not  come  back  to  me  again. 

'  Alice !  Alice !  come !  Can  it  be  you  will 
not  come  ? '  I  shouted,  for  the  last  time. 

A  crow,  who  had  been  waked  by  my  voice, 
suddenly  darted  upwards  into  a  tree-top  close 
by,  and  catching  in  the  twigs,  fluttered  his 
wings.  .  .  .  But  Alice  did  not  appear. 

With  downcast  head,  I  turned  homewards. 
Already  I  could  discern  the  black  outlines  of 
the  willows  on  the  pond's  edge,  and  the  light 
in  my  window  peeped  out  at  me  through  the 
apple-trees  in  the  orchard — peeped  at  me,  and 
hid  again,  like  the  eye  of  some  man  keeping 
watch  on  me — when  suddenly  I  heard  behind 
me  the  faint  swish  of  the  rapidly  parted  air, 
and  something  at  once  embraced  and  snatched 
me  upward,  as  a  buzzard  pounces  on  and 
snatches  up  a  quail.  ...  It  was  Alice  sweeping 
down  upon  me.  I  felt  her  cheek  against  my 
cheek,  her  enfolding  arm  about  my  body,  and 
like  a  cutting  cold  her  whisper  pierced  to  my 
ear,  '  Here  I  am.'  I  was  frightened  and 
delighted  both  at  once.  .  .  .  We  flew  at  no 
great  height  above  the  ground. 

*  You  did  not  mean  to  come  to-day? '  I  said. 

•  And  you  were  dull  without  me  ?  You  love 
me  ?     Oh,  you  are  mine ! ' 

139 


DREAM  TALES 

The  last  words  of  Alice  confused  me.  ...  I 
did  not  know  what  to  say. 

'  I  was  kept,'  she  went  on  ;  *  I  was  watched.* 

'  Who  could  keep  you  ? ' 

•Where  would  you  like  to  go?*  inquired  Alice, 
as  usual  not  answering  my  question. 

'Take  me  to  Italy — to  that  lake,  you  re- 
member.' 

Alice  turned  a  little  away,  and  shook  her 
head  in  refusal.  At  that  point  I  noticed  for  the 
first  time  that  she  had  ceased  to  be  transparent. 
And  her  face  seemed  tinged  with  colour  ;  there 
was  a  faint  glow  of  red  over  its  misty  whiteness. 
I  glanced  at  her  eyes  .  .  .  and  felt  a  pang  of 
dread  ;  in  those  eyes  something  was  astir — with 
the  slow,  continuous,  malignant  movement  of 
the  benumbed  snake,  twisting  and  turning  as 
the  sun  begins  to  thaw  it. 

'  Alice,'  I  cried, '  who  are  you  ?  Tell  me  who 
you  are.' 

Alice  simply  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

I  felt  angry  ...  I  longed  to  punish  her;  and 
suddenly  the  idea  occurred  to  me  to  tell  her  to  fly 
with  me  to  Paris.  '  That 's  the  place  for  you  to 
be  jealous,'  I  thought.  *  Alice/  I  said  aloud,  *  you 
are  not  afraid  of  big  towns — Paris,  for  instance  ? ' 

'  No.' 

'  Not  even  those  parts  where  it  is  as  light  as 
in  the  boulevards  ? ' 

140 


PHANTOMS 

•  It  is  not  the  light  of  day.' 

*  Good  ;  then  take  me  at  once  to  the  Boule- 
vard des  Italiens.' 

Alice  wrapped  the  end  of  her  long  hanging 
sleeve  about  my  head.  I  was  at  once  enfolded 
in  a  sort  of  white  vapour  full  of  the  drowsy 
fragrance  of  the  poppy.  Everything  disap- 
peared at  once ;  every  light,  every  sound,  and 
almost  consciousness  itself.  Only  the  sense 
of  being  alive  remained,  and  that  was  not 
unpleasant. 

Suddenly  the  vapour  vanished ;  Alice  took 
her  sleeve  from  my  head,  and  I  saw  at  my  feet 
a  huge  mass  of  closely  -  packed  buildings, 
brilliant  light,  movement,  noisy  traffic.  .  .  ,  i 
saw  Paris. 


XIX 

I  HAD  been  in  Paris  before,  and  so  I  recognised 
at  once  the  place  to  which  Alice  had  directed 
her  course.  It  was  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries 
with  its  old  chestnut-trees,  its  iron  railings,  its 
fortress  moat,  and  its  brutal-looking  Zouave 
sentinels.  Passing  the  palace,  passing  the 
Church  of  St.  Roche,  on  the  steps  of  which  the 
first  Napoleon  for  the  first  time  shed  French 
141 


DKEAM   TALES 

blood,  we  came  to  a  halt  high  over  the  Boulevard 
des  Italiens,  where  the  third  Napoleon  did  the 
same  thing  and  with  the  same  success.  Crowds 
of  people,  dandies  young  and  old,  workmen  in 
blouses,  women  in  gaudy  dresses,  were  thronging 
on  the  pavements ;  the  gilded  restaurants  and 
caf(£s  were  flaring  with  lights ;  omnibuses,  car- 
riages of  all  sorts  and  shapes,  moved  to  and  fro 
along  the  boulevard ;  everything  was  bustle, 
everything  was  brightness,  wherever  one  chanced 
to  look.  .  .  .  But,  strange  to  say,  I  had  no  in- 
clination to  forsake  my  pure  dark  airy  height. 
I  had  no  inclination  to  get  nearer  to  this  human 
ant-hill.  It  seemed  as  though  a  hot,  heavy, 
reddish  vapour  rose  from  it,  half-fragrance,  half- 
stench  ;  so  many  lives  were  flung  struggling  in 
one  heap  together  there.  I  was  hesitating. .  .  . 
But  suddenly,  sharp  as  the  clang  of  iron  bars,  the 
voice  of  a  harlot  of  the  streets  floated  up  to  me ; 
like  an  insolent  tongue,  it  was  thrust  out,  this 
voice  ;  it  stung  me  like  the  sting  of  a  viper.  At 
once  I  saw  in  imagination  the  strong,  heavy- 
jawed,  greedy,  flat  Parisian  face,  the  mercenary 
eyes,  the  paint  and  powder,  the  frizzed  hair,  and 
the  nosegay  of  gaudy  artificial  flowers  under 
the  high-pointed  hat,  the  polished  nails  like 
talons,  the  hideous  crinoline.  ...  I  could  fancy 
too  one  of  our  sons  of  the  steppes  running 
with  pitiful  eagerness  after  the  doll  put  up  for 
142 


PHANTOMS 

sale.  ...  I  could  fancy  him  with  clumsy  coarse- 
ness and  violent  stammering,  trying  to  imitate 
the  manners  of  the  waiters  at  Vefour's,  mincing, 
flattering,  wheedling  .  .  .  and  a  feeling  of 
loathing  gained  possession  of  me.  ...  *  No,' 
I  thought,  'here  Alice  has  no  need  to  be 
jealous.  .  .  .' 

Meanwhile  I  perceived  that  we  had  gradually 
begun  to  descend.  .  .  .  Paris  was  rising  to  meet 
us  with  all  its  din  and  odour.  .  .  . 

'  Stop,'  I  said  to  Alice.  '  Are  you  not  stifled 
and  oppressed  here  ? ' 

'  You  asked  me  to  bring  you  here  yourself.' 

*I  am  to  blame,  I  take  back  my  word.  Take 
me  away,  Alice,  I  beseech  you.  To  be  sure, 
here  is  Prince  Kulmametov  hobbling  along  the 
boulevard ;  and  his  friend,  Serge  Varaksin, 
waves  his  hand  to  him,  shouting :  "  Ivan  Stepa- 
nitch,  allons  souper,  make  haste,  zhay  angazha 
Rigol-bouche  itself!"  Take  me  away  from 
these  furnished  apartments  and  maisons  dorees, 
from  the  Jockey  Club  and  the  Figaro,  from 
close-shaven  military  heads  and  varnished  bar- 
racks, from  sergents-de-ville  with  Napoleonic 
beards,  and  from  glasses  of  muddy  absinthe, 
from  gamblers  playing  dominoes  at  the  caf(6s, 
and  gamblers  on  the  Bourse,  from  red  ribbons 
in  button-holes,  from  M.  de  Four,  inventor  of 
'matrimonial  specialities,'  and  the  gratuitous 
143 


DREAM   TALES 

consultations  of  Dr.  Charles  Albert,  from  liberal 
lectures  and  government  pamphlets,  from 
Parisian  comedies  and  Parisian  operas,  from 
Parisian  wit  and  Parisian  ignorance.  . . .  Away ! 
away !  away !  * 

'  Look  down,'  Alice  answered  ;  '  you  are  not 
now  in  Paris.' 

I  lowered  my  eyes.  ...  It  was  true.  A 
dark  plain,  intersected  here  and  there  by  the 
whitish  lines  of  roads,  was  rushing  rapidly  by 
below  us,  and  only  behind  us  on  the  horizon, 
like  the  reflection  of  an  immense  conflagration, 
rose  the  great  glow  of  the  innumerable  lights  of 
the  capital  of  the  world. 


XX 


Again  a  veil  fell  over  my  eyes.  .  i  .  Again  I 
lost  consciousness.  The  veil  was  withdrawn  at 
last.  What  was  it  down  there  below  ?  What 
was  this  park,  with  avenues  of  lopped  lime- 
trees,  with  isolated  fir-trees  of  the  shape  of 
parasols,  with  porticoes  and  temples  in  the 
Pompadour  style,  with  statues  of  satyrs  and 
nymphs  of  the  Bernini  school,  with  rococo 
tritons  in  the  midst  of  meandering  lakes,  closed 
in  by  low  parapets  of  blackened  marble? 
144 


PHANTOMS 

Wasn't  it  Versailles?  No,  it  was  not  Ver- 
sailles. A  small  palace,  also  rococo,  peeped 
out  behind  a  clump  of  bushy  oaks.  The  moon 
shone  dimly,  shrouded  in  mist,  and  over  the 
earth  there  was,  as  it  were  spread  out,  a  delicate 
smoke.  The  eye  could  not  decide  what  it  was, 
whether  moonlight  or  fog.  On  one  of  the  lakes 
a  swan  was  asleep  ;  its  long  back  was  white  as 
the  snow  of  the  frost-bound  steppes,  while 
glow-worms  gleamed  like  diamonds  in  the 
bluish  shadow  at  the  base  of  a  statue. 

'  We  are  near  Mannheim,'  said  Alice  ;  '  this  is 
the  Schwetzingen  garden.' 

'  We  are  in  Germany,'  I  thought,  and  I  fell  to 
listening.  All  was  silence,  except  somewhere, 
secluded  and  unseen,  the  splash  and  babble  of 
falling  water.  It  seemed  continually  to  repeat 
the  same  words :  *  Aye,  aye,  aye,  for  aye,  aye.' 
And  all  at  once  I  fancied  that  in  the  very  centre 
of  one  of  the  avenues,  between  clipped  walls  of 
green,  a  cavalier  came  tripping  along  in  red- 
heeled  boots,  a  gold-braided  coat,  with  lace 
ruffs  at  his  wrists,  a  light  steel  rapier  at  his 
thigh,  smilingly  offering  his  arm  to  a  lady  in  a 
powdered  wig  and  a  gay  chintz.  ...  Strange, 
pale  faces.  ...  I  tried  to  look  into  them.  .  .  . 
But  already  everything  had  vanished,  and  as 
before  there  was  nothing  but  the  babbling 
water. 

145  K 


DREAM   TALES 

'Those  are  dreams  wandering,'  whispered 
Alice  ;  '  yesterday  there  was  much — oh,  much — 
to  see  ;  to-day,  even  the  dreams  avoid  man's 
eye.     Forward  !  forward  ! ' 

We  soared  higher  and  flew  farther  on.  So 
smooth  and  easy  was  our  flight  that  it  seemed 
that  we  moved  not,  but  everything  moved  to 
meet  us.  Mountains  came  into  view,  dark, 
undulating,  covered  with  forest ;  they  rose  up 
and  swam  towards  us.  .  .  .  And  now  they  were 
slipping  by  beneath  us,  with  all  their  windings, 
hollows,  and  narrow  glades,  with  gleams  of  light 
from  rapid  brooks  among  the  slumbering  trees 
at  the  bottom  of  the  dales  ;  and  in  front  of  us 
more  mountains  sprung  up  again  and  floated 
towards  us.  .  .  ,  We  were  in  the  heart  of  the 
Black  Forest. 

Mountains,  still  mountains  .  .  .  and  forest, 
magnificent,  ancient,  stately  forest.  The  night 
sky  was  clear ;  I  could  recognise  some  kinds  of 
trees,  especially  the  splendid  firs,  with  their 
straight  white  trunks.  Here  and  there  on  the 
edge  of  the  forest,  wild  goats  could  be  seen  ; 
graceful  and  alert,  they  stood  on  their  slender 
legs  and  listened,  turning  their  heads  prettily 
and  pricking  up  their  great  funnel-shaped  ears. 
A  ruined  tower,  sightless  and  gloomy,  on  the 
crest  of  a  bare  cliff,  laid  bare  its  crumbling 
turrets  ;  above  the  old  forgotten  stones,  a  little 
146 


PHANTOMS 

golden  star  was  shining  peacefully.  From  a 
small  almost  black  lake  rose,  like  a  mysterious 
wail,  the  plaintive  croak  of  tiny  frogs.  I 
fancied  other  notes,  long-drawn-out,  languid 
like  the  strains  of  an  ^Eolian  harp.  .  .  .  Here 
we  were  in  the  home  of  legend !  The  same 
delicate  moonlight  mist,  which  had  struck  me 
in  Schwetzingen,  was  shed  here  on  every  side, 
and  the  farther  away  the  mountains,  the  thicker 
was  this  mist.  I  counted  up  five,  six,  ten  dif- 
ferent tones  of  shadow  at  different  heights  on 
the  mountain  slopes,  and  over  all  this  realm  of 
varied  silence  the  moon  queened  it  pensively. 
The  air  blew  in  soft,  light  currents.  I  felt  my- 
self a  lightness  at  heart,  and,  as  it  were,  a  lofty 
calm  and  melancholy.  .  .  . 

'  Alice,  you  must  love  this  country  ! ' 

*  I  love  nothing.' 

*  How  so  ?     Not  me  ? ' 

*  Yes  .  .  .  you  ! '  she  answered  indifferently. 
It  seemed  to  me  that   her  arm  clasped  my 

waist  more  tightly  than  before. 

'  Forward  !  forward  ! '  said  Alice,  with  a  sort 
of  cold  fervour. 

*  Forward  ! '  I  repeated. 


U7 


DREAM   TALES 


XXI 


A  LOUD,  thrilling  cry  rang  out  suddenly  over 
our  heads,  and  was  at  once  repeated  a  little  in 
front. 

'Those  are  belated  cranes  flying  to  you,  to 
the  north,'  said  Alice  ;  'would  you  like  to  join 
them  ? ' 

*  Yes,  yes  !  raise  me  up  to  them.' 

We  darted  upwards  and  in  one  instant  found 
ourselves  beside  the  flying  flock. 

The  big  handsome  birds  (there  were  thirteen 
of  them)  were  flying  in  a  triangle,  with  slow 
sharp  flaps  of  their  hollow  wings ;  with  their 
heads  and  legs  stretched  rigidly  out,  and  their 
breasts  stiflly  pressed  forward,  they  pushed  on 
persistently  and  so  swiftly  that  the  air  whistled 
about  them.  It  was  marvellous  at  such  a 
height,  so  remote  from  all  things  living,  to  see 
such  passionate,  strenuous  life,  such  unflinching 
will,  untiringly  cleaving  their  triumphant  way 
through  space.  The  cranes  now  and  then  called 
to  one  another,  the  foremost  to  the  hindmost ; 
and  there  was  a  certain  pride,  dignity,  and 
invincible  faith  in  these  loud  cries,  this  converse 
in  the  clouds.  *We  shall  get  there,  be  sure, 
hard  though  it  be,'  they  seemed  to  say,  cheering 
148 


PHANTOMS 

one  another  on.  And  then  the  thought  came 
to  me  that  men,  such  as  these  birds — in  Russia 
— nay,  in  the  whole  world,  are  few. 

'  We  are  flying  towards  Russia  now,'  observed 
Alice.  I  noticed  now,  not  for  the  first  time,  that 
she  almost  always  knew  what  I  was  thinking 
of     '  Would  you  like  to  go  back  ? ' 

'  Let  us  go  back  ...  or  no !  I  have  been  in 
Paris  ;  take  me  to  Petersburg.' 

'  Now  ? ' 

*  At  once.  .  .  .  Only  wrap  my  head  in  your 
veil,  or  it  will  go  ill  with  me.' 

Alice  raised  her  hand  .  .  .  but  before  the 
mist  enfolded  me,  I  had  time  to  feel  on  my  lips 
the  contact  of  that  soft,  dull  sting.  .  ,  . 


XXII 

*  Ll-I-ISTEN  !  *  sounded  in  my  ears  a  long  drawn 
out  cry.  '  Li-i-isten  ! '  was  echoed  back  with  a 
sort  of  desperation  in  the  distance.  *  Li-i-isten  !' 
died  away  somewhere  far,  far  away.  I  started. 
A  tall  golden  spire  flashed  on  my  eyes ;  I 
recognised  the  fortress  of  St.  Peter  and  St. 
Paul. 

A  northern,  pale  night!     But  was   it   night 
at  all  ?     Was  it  not  rather  a  pallid,  sickly  day- 
149 


DREAM   TALES 

light  ?  I  never  liked  Petersburg  nights  ;  but 
this  time  the  night  seemed  even  fearful  to  me  ; 
the  face  of  Alice  had  vanished  completely, 
melted  away  like  the  mist  of  morning  in  the 
July  sun,  and  I  saw  her  whole  body  clearly,  as 
it  hung,  heavy  and  solitary  on  a  level  with  the 
Alexander  column.  So  here  was  Petersburg! 
Yes,  it  was  Petersburg,  no  doubt.  The  wide 
empty  grey  streets ;  the  greyish-white,  and 
yellowish-grey  and  greyish-lilac  houses,  covered 
with  stucco,  which  was  peeling  off,  with  their 
sunken  windows,  gaudy  sign-boards,  iron  can- 
opies over  steps,  and  wretched  little  green- 
grocer's shops  ;  the  facades,  inscriptions,  sentry- 
boxes,  troughs  ;  the  golden  cap  of  St.  Isaac's  ; 
the  senseless  motley  Bourse  ;  the  granite 
walls  of  the  fortress,  and  the  broken  wooden 
pavement ;  the  barges  loaded  with  hay  and 
timber ;  the  smell  of  dust,  cabbage,  matting, 
and  hemp ;  the  stony-faced  dvorniks  in  sheep- 
skin coats,  with  high  collars ;  the  cab-drivers, 
huddled  up  dead  asleep  on  their  decrepit  cabs 
— yes,  this  was  Petersburg,  our  northern  Pal- 
myra. Everything  was  visible  ;  everything  was 
clear — cruelly  clear  and  distinct — and  every- 
thing was  mournfully  sleeping,  standing  out  in 
strange  huddled  masses  in  the  dull  clear  air. 
The  flush  of  sunset — a  hectic  flush — had  not 
yet  gone,  and  would  not  be  gone  till  morning 
150 


PHANTOMS 

from  the  white  starless  sky  ;  it  was  reflected  on 
the  silken  surface  of  the  Neva,  while  faintly- 
gurgling  and  faintly  moving,  the  cold  blue 
waves  hurried  on.  .  .  . 

'  Let  us  fly  away,'  Alice  implored. 

And  without  waiting  for  my  reply,  she  bore 
me  away  across  the  Neva,  over  the  palace 
square  to  Liteiny  Street.  Steps  and  voices 
were  audible  beneath  us  ;  a  group  of  young 
men,  with  worn  faces,  came  along  the  street 
talking  about  dancing-classes.  '  Sub-lieutenant 
Stolpakov's  seventh  ! '  shouted  suddenly  a 
soldier,  standing  half-asleep  on  guard  at  a 
pyramid  of  rusty  bullets ;  and  a  little  farther 
on,  at  an  open  window  in  a  tall  house,  I  saw  a 
girl  in  a  creased  silk  dress,  without  cuffs,  with  a 
pearl  net  on  her  hair,  and  a  cigarette  in  her 
mouth.  She  was  reading  a  book  with  reverent 
attention  ;  it  was  a  volume  of  the  works  of  one 
of  our  modem  Juvenals. 

'  Let  us  fly  away  ! '  I  said  to  Alice. 

One  instant  more,  and  there  were  glimpses 
below  us  of  the  rotting  pine  copses  and  mossy 
bogs  surrounding  Petersburg.  We  bent  our 
course  straight  to  the  south ;  sky,  earth,  all 
grew  gradually  darker  and  darker.  The  sick 
night ;  the  sick  daylight ;  the  sick  town — all 
were  left  behind  us. 


151 


DREAM   TALES 


XXIII 


We  flew  more  slowly  than  usual,  and  I  was  able 
to  follow  with  my  eyes  the  immense  expanse  of 
my  native  land  gradually  unfolding  before  me, 
like  the  unrolling  of  an  endless  panorama. 
Forests,  copses,  fields,  ravines,  rivers — here  and 
there  villages  and  churches — and  again  fields 
and  forests  and  copses  and  ravines.  .  .  .  Sad- 
ness came  over  me,  and  a  kind  of  indifferent 
dreariness.  And  I  was  not  sad  and  dreary 
simply  because  it  was  Russia  I  was  flying  over. 
No.  The  earth  itself,  this  flat  surface  which 
lay  spread  out  beneath  me  ;  the  whole  earthly 
globe,  with  its  populations,  multitudinous,  feeble, 
crushed  by  want,  grief  and  diseases,  bound  to  a 
clod  of  pitiful  dust ;  this  brittle,  rough  crust, 
this  shell  over  the  fiery  sands  of  our  planet, 
overspread  with  the  mildew  we  call  the  organic, 
vegetable  kingdom  ;  these  human  flies,  a  thou- 
sand times  paltrier  than  flies ;  their  dwellings 
glued  together  with  filth,  the  pitiful  traces  of 
their  tiny,  monotonous  bustle,  of  their  comic 
struggle  with  the  unchanging  and  inevitable, 
how  revolting  it  all  suddenly  was  to  me.  My 
heart  turned  slowly  sick,  and  I  could  not  bear 
to  gaze  longer  on  these  trivial  pictures,  on  this 
152 


PHANTOMS 

vulgar  show.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  felt  dreary,  worse  than 
dreary.  Even  pity  I  felt  nothing  of  for  my 
brother  men  :  all  feelings  in  me  were  merged  in 
one  which  I  scarcely  dare  to  name :  a  feeling  of 
loathing,  and  stronger  than  all  and  more  than 
all  within  me  was  the  loathing — for  myself 

*  Cease,'  whispered  Alice, '  cease,  or  I  cannot 
carry  you.     You  have  grown  heavy.' 

'  Home,'  I  answered  her  in  the  very  tone  in 
which  I  used  to  say  the  word  to  my  coachman, 
when  I  came  out  at  four  o'clock  at  night  from 
some  Moscow  friends',  where  I  had  been  talking 
since  dinner-time  of  the  future  of  Russia  and 
the  significance  of  the  commune.  *Home,'  I 
repeated,  and  closed  my  eyes. 


XXIV 

But  I  soon  opened  them  again.  Alice  seemed 
huddling  strangely  up  to  me ;  she  was  almost 
pushing  against  me.  I  looked  at  her  and 
my  blood  froze  at  the  sight  One  who  has 
chanced  to  behold  on  the  face  of  another  a 
sudden  look  of  intense  terror,  the  cause  of  which 
he  does  not  suspect,  will  understand  me.  By 
terror,  overmastering  terror,  the  pale  features  of 
Alice  were  drawn  and  contorted,  almost  effaced. 
I  had  never  seen  anything  like  it  even  on  a 
I  S3 


DREAM  TALES 

living  human  face.     A  lifeless,  misty  phantom, 
a  shade,  .  .  ,  and  this  deadly  horror.  .  .  . 

*  Alice,  what  is  it  ? '  I  said  at  last. 

'  She  .  .  .  she  .  .  .*  she  answered  with  an 
effort.     '  She.' 

'She?     Who  is  she?' 

'  Do  not  utter  her  name,  not  her  name,'  Alice 
faltered  hurriedly.     *  We  must  escape,  or  there 
will  be  an  end  to  everything,  and  for  ever.  .  . 
Look,  over  there  ! ' 

I  turned  my  head  in  the  direction  in  which 
her  trembling  hand  was  pointing,  and  discerned 
something  .  .  .  something  horrible  indeed. 

This  something  was  the  more  horrible  that  it 
had  no  definite  shape.  Something  bulky,  dark, 
yellowish -black,  spotted  like  a  lizard's  belly, 
not  a  storm-cloud,  and  not  smoke,  was  crawling 
with  a  snake-like  motion  over  the  earth.  A 
wide  rhythmic  undulating  movement  from  above 
downwards,  and  from  below  upwards,  an  un- 
dulation recalling  the  malignant  sweep  of  the 
wings  of  a  vulture  seeking  its  prey ;  at  times 
an  indescribably  revolting  grovelling  on  the 
earth,  as  of  a  spider  stooping  over  its  captured 
fly.  .  .  .  Who  are  you,  what  are  you,  menacing 
mass  ?  Under  her  influence,  I  saw  it,  I  felt  it 
— all  sank  into  nothingness,  all  was  dumb.  .  .  . 
A  putrefying,  pestilential  chill  came  from  it. 
At  this  chill  breath  the  heart  turned  sick,  and 


PHANTOMS 

the  eyes  grew  dim,  and  the  hair  stood  up  on 
the  head.  It  was  a  power  moving  ;  that  power 
which  there  is  no  resisting,  to  which  all  is  sub- 
ject, which,  sightless,  shapeless,  senseless,  sees 
all,  knows  all,  and  like  a  bird  of  prey  picks  out 
its  victims,  like  a  snake,  stifles  them  and  stabs 
them  with  its  frozen  sting.  .  .  . 

'  Alice !  Alice ! '  I  shrieked  like  one  in 
frenzy.     *  It  is  death  !  death  itself! ' 

The  wailing  sound  I  had  heard  before  broke 
from  Alice's  lips  ;  this  time  it  was  more  like 
a  human  wail  of  despair,  and  we  flew.  But  our 
flight  was  strangely  and  alarmingly  unsteady ; 
Alice  turned  over  in  the  air,  fell,  rushed  from 
side  to  side  like  a  partridge  mortally  wounded, 
or  trying  to  attract  a  dog  away  from  her  young. 
And  meanwhile  in  pursuit  of  us,  parting  from 
the  indescribable  mass  of  horror,  rushed  sort 
of  long  undulating  tentacles,  like  outstretched 
arms,  like  talons.  .  .  .  Suddenly  a  huge  shape, 
a  muffled  figure  on  a  pale  horse,  sprang  up  and 
flew  upwards  into  the  very  heavens.  .  .  .  Still 
more  fearfully,  still  more  desperately  Alice 
struggled.  '  She  has  seen  !  All  is  over !  I  am 
lost ! '  I  heard  her  broken  whisper.  '  Oh,  I  am 
miserable !  I  might  have  profited,  have  won 
life,  .  .  .  and  now.  .  .  .  Nothingness,  nothing- 
ness ! '  It  was  too  unbearable.  ...  I  lost 
consciousness. 

I5S 


DREAM  TALES 


XXV 


When  I  came  to  myself,  I  was  lying  on  my 
back  in  the  grass,  feeling  a  dull  ache  all  over  me, 
as  from  a  bad  bruise.  The  dawn  was  beginning 
in  the  sky :  I  could  clearly  distinguish  things. 
Not  far  off,  alongside  a  birch  copse,  ran  a  road 
planted  with  willows :  the  country  seemed 
familiar  to  me.  I  began  to  recollect  what  had 
happened  to  me,  and  shuddered  all  over  directly 
my  mind  recalled  the  last,  hideous  apparition. .  .  . 

'  But  what  was  Alice  afraid  of? '  I  thought. 
' Can  she  too  be  subject  to  that  power?  Is  she 
not  immortal?  Can  she  too  be  in  danger  of 
annihilation,  dissolution  ?     How  is  it  possible  ? ' 

A  soft  moan  sounded  close  by  me.  I  turned 
my  head.  Two  paces  from  me  lay  stretched 
out  motionless  a  young  woman  in  a  white 
gown,  with  thick  disordered  tresses,  with  bare 
shoulders.  One  arm  was  thrown  behind  her 
head,  the  other  had  fallen  on  her  bosom.  Her 
eyes  were  closed,  and  on  her  tightly  shut  lips 
stood  a  fleck  of  crimson  stain.  Could  it  be 
Alice  ?  But  Alice  was  a  phantom,  and  I  was 
looking  upon  a  living  woman.  I  crept  up  to 
her,  bent  down.  .  .  . 

*  Alice,  is  it  you  ? '  I  cried.  Suddenly,  slowly 
iS6 


PHANTOMS 

quivering,  the  wide  eyelids  rose ;  dark  piercing 
eyes  were  fastened  upon  me,  and  at  the  same 
instant  lips  too  fastened  upon  me,  warm,  moist, 
smelling  of  blood  .  .  .  soft  arms  twined  tightly 
round  my  neck,  a  burning,  full  heart  pressed 
convulsively  to  mine.  'Farewell,  farewell  for 
ever ! '  the  dying  voice  uttered  distinctly,  and 
everything  vanished. 

I  got  up,  staggering  like  a  drunken  man,  and 
passing  my  hands  several  times  over  my  face, 
looked  carefully  about  me.  I  found  myself 
near  the  high  road,  a  mile  and  a  half  from  my 
own  place.  The  sun  had  just  risen  when  I 
got  home. 

All  the  following  nights  I  awaited — and  I 
confess  not  without  alarm — the  appearance  of 
my  phantom  ;  but  it  did  not  visit  me  again.  I 
even  set  off  one  day,  in  the  dusk,  to  the  old 
oak,  but  nothing  took  place  there  out  of  the 
common.  I  did  not,  however,  overmuch  regret 
the  discontinuance  of  this  strange  acquaintance. 
I  reflected  much  and  long  over  this  inexplicable, 
almost  unintelligible  phenomenon  ;  and  I  am 
convinced  that  not  only  science  cannot  explain 
it,  but  that  even  in  fairy  tales  and  legends 
nothing  like  it  is  to  be  met  with.  What  was 
Alice,  after  all  ?  An  apparition,  a  restless  soul, 
an  evil  spirit,  a  sylphide,  a  vampire,  or  what  ? 
Sometimes  it  struck  me  again  that  Alice  was  a 
157 


DREAM   TALES 

woman  I  had  known  at  some  time  or  other,  and 
I  made  tremendous  efforts  to  recall  where  I  had 
seen  her.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  I  thought  sometimes, 
directly,  this  minute,  I  shall  remember.  ...  In  a 
flash  everything  had  melted  away  again  like  a 
dream.  Yes,  I  thought  a  great  deal,  and,  as  is 
always  the  way,  came  to  no  conclusion.  The 
advice  or  opinion  of  others  I  could  not  bring  my- 
self to  invite  ;  fearing  to  be  taken  for  a  madman. 
I  gave  up  all  reflection  upon  it  at  last ;  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  had  no  time  for  it  For  one  thing,  the 
emancipation  had  come  along  with  the  redistri- 
bution of  property,  etc.;  and  for  another,  my  own 
health  failed  ;  I  suffered  with  my  chest,  with 
sleeplessness,  and  a  cough.  I  got  thin  all  over. 
My  face  was  yellow  as  a  dead  man's.  The 
doctor  declares  I  have  too  little  blood,  calls  my 
illness  by  the  Greek  name,  '  anaemia,'  and  is 
sending  me  to  Gastein.  The  arbitrator  swears 
that  without  me  there 's  no  coming  to  an  under- 
standing with  the  peasants.  Well,  what 's  one 
to  do  ? 

But  what  is  the  meaning  of  the  piercingly- 
pure,  shrill  notes,  the  notes  of  an  harmonica, 
which  I  hear  directly  any  one's  death  is  spoken 
of  before  me  ?  They  keep  growing  louder,  more 
penetrating.  .  .  .  And  why  do  I  shudder  in  such 
anguish  at  the  mere  thought  of  annihilation  ? 


i£8 


THE   SONG 
OF   TRIUMPHANT    LOVE 

[MDXLII] 

DEDICATED 
TO  THE   MEMORY  OF  GUSTAVE   FLAUBERT 

'  i-Vage  Du  zu  irren  vnd  »u  trdumeni' — Schiller 


THE   SONG 
OF   TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 

This  is  what  I  read  in  an  old  Italian  manu- 
script : — 


About  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century- 
there  were  living  in  Ferrara  (it  was  at  that 
time  flourishing  under  the  sceptre  of  its  magni- 
ficent archdukes,  the  patrons  of  the  arts  and 
poetry)  two  young  men,  named  Fabio  and 
Muzzio.  They  were  of  the  same  age,  and  of 
near  kinship,  and  were  scarcely  ever  apart ;  the 
warmest  affection  had  united  them  from  early 
childhood  .  .  .  the  similarity  of  their  positions 
strengthened  the  bond.  Both  belonged  to  old 
families ;  both  were  rich,  independent,  and 
without  family  ties ;  tastes  and  inclinations 
were  alike  in  both.  Muzzio  was  devoted  to 
music,  Fabio  to  painting.  They  were  looked 
upon  with  pride  by  the  whole  of  Ferrara,  as 

l6l  L 


DREAM   TALES 

ornaments  of  the  court,  society,  and  town.  In 
appearance,  however,  they  were  not  alike, 
though  both  were  distinguished  by  a  graceful, 
youthful  beauty.  Fabio  was  taller,  fair  of  face 
and  flaxen  of  hair,  and  he  had  blue  eyes. 
Muzzio,  on  the  other  hand,  had  a  swarthy  face 
and  black  hair,  and  in  his  dark  brown  eyes 
there  was  not  the  merry  light,  nor  on  his  lips 
the  genial  smile  of  Fabio  ;  his  thick  eyebrows 
overhung  narrow  eyelids,  while  Fabio's  golden 
eyebrows  formed  delicate  half-circles  on  his 
pure,  smooth  brow.  In  conversation,  too, 
Muzzio  was  less  animated.  For  all  that,  the 
two  friends  were  both  alike  looked  on  with 
favour  by  ladies,  as  well  they  might  be,  being 
models  of  chivalrous  courtliness  and  generosity. 
At  the  same  time  there  was  living  in  Ferrara 
a  girl  named  Valeria.  She  was  considered  one 
of  the  greatest  beauties  in  the  town,  though  it 
was  very  seldom  possible  to  see  her,  as  she  led 
a  retired  life,  and  never  went  out  except  to 
church,  and  on  great  holidays  for  a  walk.  She 
lived  with  her  mother,  a  widow  of  noble  family, 
though  of  small  fortune,  who  had  no  other 
children.  In  every  one  whom  Valeria  met  she 
inspired  a  sensation  of  involuntary  admiration, 
and  an  equally  involuntary  tenderness  and 
respect,  so  modest  was  her  mien,  so  little,  it 
seemed,  was  she  aware  of  all  the  power  of  her 
162 


THE   SONG   OF  TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 

own  charms.  Some,  it  is  true,  found  her  a 
little  pale ;  her  eyes,  almost  always  downcast, 
expressed  a  certain  shyness,  even  timidity ;  her 
lips  rarely  smiled,  and  then  only  faintly ;  her 
voice  scarcely  any  one  had  heard.  But  the 
rumour  went  that  it  was  most  beautiful,  and 
that,  shut  up  in  her  own  room,  in  the  early 
morning  when  everything  still  slumbered  in  the 
town,  she  loved  to  sing  old  songs  to  the  sound 
of  the  lute,  on  which  she  used  to  play  herself. 
In  spite  of  her  pallor,  Valeria  was  blooming 
with  health ;  and  even  old  people,  as  they 
gazed  on  her,  could  not  but  think,  'Oh,  how 
happy  the  youth  for  whom  that  pure  maiden 
bud,  still  enfolded  in  its  petals,  will  one  day 
open  into  full  flower  1 ' 


II 

Fabio  and  Muzzio  saw  Valeria  for  the  first 
time  at  a  magnificent  public  festival,  celebrated 
at  the  command  of  the  Archduke  of  Ferrara, 
Ercol,  son  of  the  celebrated  Lucrezia  Borgia,  in 
honour  of  some  illustrious  grandees  who  had 
come  from  Paris  on  the  invitation  of  the 
Archduchess,  daughter  of  the  French  king 
Louis  XII.  Valeria  was  sitting  beside  her 
163 


DREAM   TALES 

mother  on  an  elegant  tribune,  built  after  a 
design  of  Palladio,  in  the  principal  square  of 
Ferrara,  for  the  most  honourable  ladies  in  the 
town.  Both  Fabio  and  Muzzio  fell  passionately 
in  love  with  her  on  that  day ;  and,  as  they 
never  had  any  secrets  from  each  other,  each 
of  them  soon  knew  what  was  passing  in  his 
friend's  heart.  They  agreed  together  that 
both  should  try  to  get  to  know  Valeria ;  and 
if  she  should  deign  to  choose  one  of  them,  the 
other  should  submit  without  a  murmur  to  her 
decision.  A  few  weeks  later,  thanks  to  the 
excellent  renown  they  deservedly  enjoyed,  they 
succeeded  in  penetrating  into  the  widow's  house, 
difficult  though  it  was  to  obtain  an  entry  to  it ; 
she  permitted  them  to  visit  her.  From  that 
time  forward  they  were  able  almost  every  day 
to  see  Valeria  and  to  converse  with  her  ;  and 
every  day  the  passion  kindled  in  the  hearts  of 
both  young  men  grew  stronger  and  stronger. 
Valeria,  however,  showed  no  preference  for 
either  of  them,  though  their  society  was  ob- 
viously agreeable  to  her.  With  Muzzio,  she 
occupied  herself  with  music ;  but  she  talked 
more  with  Fabio,  with  him  she  was  less  timid. 
At  last,  they  resolved  to  learn  once  for  all  their 
fate,  and  sent  a  letter  to  Valeria,  in  which  they 
begged  her  to  be  open  with  them,  and  to  say  to 
which  she  would  be  ready  to  give  her  hand. 
164 


THE   SONG   OF   TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 

Valeria  showed  this  letter  to  her  mother,  and 
declared  that  she  was  willing  to  remain  un- 
married, but  if  her  mother  considered  it  time 
for  her  to  enter  upon  matrimony,  then  she 
would  marry  whichever  one  her  mother's 
choice  should  fix  upon.  The  excellent  widow 
shed  a  few  tears  at  the  thought  of  parting  from 
her  beloved  child  ;  there  was,  however,  no  good 
ground  for  refusing  the  suitors,  she  considered 
both  of  them  equally  worthy  of  her  daughter's 
hand.  But,  as  she  secretly  preferred  Fabio, 
and  suspected  that  Valeria  liked  him  the  better, 
she  fixed  upon  him.  The  next  day  Fabio 
heard  of  his  happy  fate,  while  all  that  was  left 
for  Muzzio  was  to  keep  his  word,  and  submit. 

And  this  he  did  ;  but  to  be  the  witness  of 
the  triumph  of  his  friend  and  rival  was  more 
than  he  could  do.  He  promptly  sold  the 
greater  part  of  his  property,  and  collecting 
some  thousands  of  ducats,  he  set  off  on  a  far 
journey  to  the  East.  As  he  said  farewell  to 
Fabio,  he  told  him  that  he  should  not  return 
till  he  felt  that  the  last  traces  of  passion  had 
vanished  from  his  heart.  It  was  painful  to 
Fabio  to  part  from  the  friend  of  his  childhood 
and  youth.  .  .  .  but  the  joyous  anticipation  of 
approaching  bliss  soon  swallowed  up  all  other 
sensations,  and  he  gave  himself  up  wholly  to 
the  transports  of  successful  love. 
165 


DREAM   TALES 

Shortly  after,  he  celebrated  his  nuptials  with 
Valeria,  and  only  then  learnt  the  full  worth  of 
the  treasure  it  had  been  his  fortune  to  obtain. 
He  had  a  charming  villa,  shut  in  by  a  shady 
garden,  a  short  distance  from  Ferrara;  he 
moved  thither  with  his  wife  and  her  mother. 
Then  a  time  of  happiness  began  for  them. 
Married  life  brought  out  in  a  new  and  enchant- 
ing light  all  the  perfections  of  Valeria.  Fabio 
became  an  artist  of  distinction — no  longer  a 
mere  amateur,  but  a  real  master.  Valeria's 
mother  rejoiced,  and  thanked  God  as  she 
looked  upon  the  happy  pair.  Four  years  flew 
by  unperceived,  like  a  delicious  dream.  One 
thing  only  was  wanting  to  the  young  couple, 
one  lack  they  mourned  over  as  a  sorrow  :  they 
had  no  children  .  .  .  but  they  had  not  given 
up  all  hope  of  them.  At  the  end  of  the  fourth 
year  they  were  overtaken  by  a  great,  this  time 
a  real  sorrow  ;  Valeria's  mother  died  after  an 
illness  of  a  few  days. 

Many  tears  were  shed  by  Valeria  ;  for  a  long 
time  she  could  not  accustom  herself  to  her  loss. 
But  another  year  went  by  ;  life  again  asserted 
its  rights  and  flowed  along  its  old  channel. 
And  behold,  one  fine  summer  evening,  unex- 
pected by  every  one,  Muzzio  returned  to 
Ferrara. 


i66 


THE  SONG  OF  TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 


III 


During  the  whole  space  of  five  years  that  had 
elapsed  since  his  departure  no  one  had  heard 
anything  of  him ;  all  talk  about  him  had  died 
away,  as  though  he  had  vanished  from  the  face 
of  the  earth.  When  Fabio  met  his  friend  in 
one  of  the  streets  of  Ferrara  he  almost  cried  out 
aloud,  first  in  alarm  and  then  in  delight,  and 
he  at  once  invited  him  to  his  villa.  There 
happened  to  be  in  his  garden  there  a  spacious 
pavilion,  apart  from  the  house  ;  he  proposed  to 
his  friend  that  he  should  establish  himself  in 
this  pavilion.  Muzzio  readily  agreed  and  moved 
thither  the  same  day  together  with  his  servant, 
a  dumb  Malay — dumb  but  not  deaf,  and  indeed, 
to  judge  by  the  alertness  of  his  expression,  a 
very  intelligent  man.  .  .  .  His  tongue  had  been 
cut  out.  Muzzio  brought  with  him  dozens  of 
boxes,  filled  with  treasures  of  all  sorts  collected 
by  him  in  the  course  of  his  prolonged  travels. 
Valeria  was  delighted  at  Muzzio's  return  ;  and 
he  greeted  her  with  cheerful  friendliness,  but 
composure ;  it  could  be  seen  in  every  action 
that  he  had  kept  the  promise  given  to  Fabio. 
During  the  day  he  completely  arranged  every- 
thing in  order  in  his  pavilion  ;  aided  by  his 
167 


DREAM   TALES 

Malay,  he  unpacked  the  curiosities  he  had 
brought ;  rugs,  silken  stuffs,  velvet  and  brocaded 
garments,  weapons,  goblets,  dishes  and  bowls, 
decorated  with  enamel,  things  made  of  gold 
and  silver,  and  inlaid  with  pearl  and  turquoise, 
carved  boxes  of  jasper  and  ivory,  cut  bottles, 
spices,  incense,  skins  of  wild  beasts,  and 
feathers  of  unknown  birds,  and  a  number  of 
other  things,  the  very  use  of  which  seemed  mys- 
terious and  incomprehensible.  Among  all  these 
precious  things  there  was  a  rich  pearl  necklace, 
bestowed  upon  Muzzio  by  the  king  of  Persia 
for  some  great  and  secret  service ;  he  asked 
permission  of  Valeria  to  put  this  necklace  with 
his  own  hand  about  her  neck ;  she  was  struck 
by  its  great  weight  and  a  sort  of  strange  heat 
in  it  ...  it  seemed  to  burn  to  her  skin.  In 
the  evening  after  dinner  as  they  sat  on  the 
terrace  of  the  villa  in  the  shade  of  the  oleanders 
and  laurels,  Muzzio  began  to  relate  his  adven- 
tures. He  told  of  the  distant  lands  he  had 
seen,  of  cloud-topped  mountains  and  deserts, 
rivers  like  seas  ;  he  told  of  immense  buildings 
and  temples,  of  trees  a  thousand  years  old,  of 
birds  and  flowers  of  the  colours  of  the  rainbow  : 
he  named  the  cities  and  the  peoples  he  had 
visited  .  .  .  their  very  names  seemed  like  a  fairy 
tale.  The  whole  East  was  familiar  to  Muzzio  ; 
he  had  traversed  Persia,  Arabia,  where  the 
1 68 


THE   SONG   OF   TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 

horses  are  nobler  and  more  beautiful  than  any 
other  living  creatures  ;  he  had  penetrated  into 
the  very  heart  of  India,  where  the  race  of  men 
grow  like  stately  trees ;  he  had  reached  the 
boundaries  of  China  and  Thibet,  where  the 
living  god,  called  the  Grand  Llama,  dwells  on 
earth  in  the  guise  of  a  silent  man  with  narrow 
eyes.  Marvellous  were  his  tales.  Both  Fabio 
and  Valeria  listened  to  him  as  if  enchanted. 
Muzzio's  features  had  really  changed  very  little; 
his  face,  swarthy  from  childhood,  had  grown 
darker  still,  burnt  under  the  rays  of  a  hotter 
sun,  his  eyes  seemed  more  deep-set  than  before 
— and  that  was  all ;  but  the  expression  of  his 
face  had  become  different :  concentrated  and 
dignified,  it  never  showed  more  life  when  he 
recalled  the  dangers  he  had  encountered  by 
night  in  forests  that  resounded  with  the  roar  of 
tigers  or  by  day  on  solitary  ways  where  savage 
fanatics  lay  in  wait  for  travellers,  to  slay  them 
in  honour  of  their  iron  goddess  who  demands 
human  sacrifices.  And  Muzzio's  voice  had 
grown  deeper  and  more  even  ;  his  hands,  his 
whole  body  had  lost  the  freedom  of  gesture 
peculiar  to  the  Italian  race.  With  the  aid  of  his 
servant,  the  obsequiously  alert  Malay,  he 
showed  his  hosts  a  few  of  the  feats  he  had 
learnt  from  the  Indian  Brahmins.  Thus  for 
instance,  having  first  hidden  himself  behind  a 
169 


DREAM   TALES 

curtain,  he  suddenly  appeared  sitting  in  the  air 
cross-legged,  the  tips  of  his  fingers  pressed 
lightly  on  a  bamboo  cane  placed  vertically, 
which  astounded  Fabio  not  a  little  and  posi- 
tively alarmed  Valeria.  ...  *  Isn't  he  a  sorcerer?' 
was  her  thought.  When  he  proceeded,  piping 
on  a  little  flute,  to  call  some  tame  snakes  out  of 
a  covered  basket,  where  their  dark  flat  heads 
with  quivering  tongues  appeared  under  a  parti- 
coloured cloth,  Valeria  was  terrified  and  begged 
Muzzio  to  put  away  these  loathsome  horrors  as 
soon  as  possible.  At  supper  Muzzio  regaled 
his  friends  with  wine  of  Shiraz  from  a  round 
long-necked  flagon  ;  it  was  of  extraordinary 
fragrance  and  thickness,  of  a  golden  colour  with 
a  shade  of  green  in  it,  and  it  shone  with  a 
strange  brightness  as  it  was  poured  into  the 
tiny  jasper  goblets.  In  taste  it  was  unlike 
European  wines :  it  was  very  sweet  and  spicy, 
and,  drunk  slowly  in  small  draughts,  produced 
a  sensation  of  pleasant  drowsiness  in  all  the 
limbs.  Muzzio  made  both  Fabio  and  Valeria 
drink  a  goblet  of  it,  and  he  drank  one  him- 
self. Bending  over  her  goblet  he  murmured 
something,  moving  his  fingers  as  he  did  so. 
Valeria  noticed  this ;  but  as  in  all  Muzzio's 
doings,  in  his  whole  behaviour,  there  was  some- 
thing strange  and  out  of  the  common,  she  only 
thought, '  Can  he  have  adopted  some  new  faith 
1 70 


THE  SONG  OF  TRIUMPHANT  LOVE 

in  India,  or  is  that  the  custom  there  ? '  Then 
after  a  short  silence  she  asked  him :  *  Had  he 
persevered  with  music  during  his  travels? 
Muzzio,  in  reply,  bade  the  Malay  bring  his 
Indian  violin.  It  was  like  those  of  to-day,  but 
instead  of  four  strings  it  had  only  three,  the 
upper  part  of  it  was  covered  with  a  bluish 
snake-skin,  and  the  slender  bow  of  reed  was  in 
the  form  of  a  half- moon,  and  on  its  extreme 
end  glittered  a  pointed  diamond. 

Muzzio  played  first  some  mournful  airs, 
national  songs  as  he  told  them,  strange  and 
even  barbarous  to  an  Italian  ear  ;  the  sound  of 
the  metallic  strings  was  plaintive  and  feeble. 
But  when  Muzzio  began  the  last  song,  it 
suddenly  gained  force  and  rang  out  tunefully 
and  powerfully ;  the  passionate  melody  flowed 
out  under  the  wide  sweeps  of  the  bow,  flowed 
out,  exquisitely  twisting  and  coiling  like  the 
snake  that  covered  the  violin-top  ;  and  such 
fire,  such  triumphant  bliss  glowed  and 
burned  in  this  melody  that  Fabio  and  Valeria 
felt  wrung  to  the  heart  and  tears  came  into 
their  eyes  ;  .  .  .  while  Muzzio,  his  head  bent, 
and  pressed  close  to  the  violin,  his  cheeks  pale, 
his  eyebrows  drawn  together  into  a  single 
straight  line,  seemed  still  more  concentrated 
and  solemn  ;  and  the  diamond  at  the  end  of 
the  bow  flashed  sparks  of  light  as  though  it  too 
171 


DREAM   TALES 

were  kindled  by  the  fire  of  the  divine  song. 
When  Muzzio  had  finished,  and  still  keeping  fast 
the  violin  between  his  chin  and  his  shoulder, 
dropped  the  hand  that  held  the  bow,  'What 
is  that?  What  is  that  you  have  been  playing 
to  us?'  cried  Fabio.  Valeria  uttered  not  a 
word — but  her  whole  being  seemed  echoing  her 
husband's  question.  Muzzio  laid  the  violin  on 
the  table — and  slightly  tossing  back  his  hair,  he 
said  with  a  polite  smile :  *  That — that  melody 
.  .  .  that  song  I  heard  once  in  the  island  of 
Ceylon.  That  song  is  known  there  among  the 
people  as  the  song  of  happy,  triumphant  love.' 
*  Play  it  again,'  Fabio  was  murmuring.  '  No  ;  it 
can't  be  played  again,'  answered  Muzzio.  *  Be- 
sides, it  is  now  too  late.  Signora  Valeria  ought 
to  be  at  rest ;  and  it 's  time  for  me  too  ...  I 
am  weary.'  During  the  whole  day  Muzzio  had 
treated  Valeria  with  respectful  simplicity,  as  a 
friend  of  former  days,  but  as  he  went  out  he 
clasped  her  hand  very  tightly,  squeezing  his 
fingers  on  her  palm,  and  looking  so  intently 
into  her  face  that  though  she  did  not  raise  her 
eyelids,  she  yet  felt  the  look  on  her  suddenly 
flaming  cheeks.  She  said  nothing  to  Muzzio, 
but  jerked  away  her  hand,  and  when  he  was 
gone,  she  gazed  at  the  door  through  which  he 
had  passed  out.  She  remembered  how  she  had 
been  a  little  afraid  of  him  even  in  old  days  .  .  . 
172 


THE   SONG   OF   TRIUMPHANT    LOVE 

and  now  she  was  overcome  by  perplexity, 
Muzzio  went  off  to  his  pavilion :  the  husband 
and  wife  went  to  their  bedroom. 


IV 


Valeria  did  not  quickly  fall  asleep ;  there 
was  a  faint  and  languid  fever  in  her  blood  and 
a  slight  ringing  in  her  ears  .  .  .  from  that 
strange  wine,  as  she  supposed,  and  perhaps 
too  from  Muzzio's  stories,  from  his  playing 
on  the  violin  .  .  .  towards  morning  she  did  at 
last  fall  asleep,  and  she  had  an  extraordinary 
dream. 

She  dreamt  that  she  was  going  into  a  large 
room  with  a  low  ceiling  .  .  .  Such  a  room  she 
had  never  seen  in  her  life.  All  the  walls  were 
covered  with  tiny  blue  tiles  with  gold  lines  on 
them ;  slender  carved  pillars  of  alabaster 
supported  the  marble  ceiling ;  the  ceiling  itself 
and  the  pillars  seemed  half  transparent  ...  a 
pale  rosy  light  penetrated  from  all  sides  into 
the  room,  throwing  a  mysterious  and  uniform 
light  on  all  the  objects  in  it;  brocaded  cushions 
lay  on  a  narrow  rug  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
floor,  which  was  smooth  as  a  mirror.  In  the 
corners  almost  unseen  were  smoking  lofty 
173 


DREAM   TALES 

censers,  of  the  shape  of  monstrous  beasts ;  there 
was  no  window  anywhere ;  a  door  hung  with  a 
velvet  curtain  stood  dark  and  silent  in  a  recess 
in  the  wall.  And  suddenly  this  curtain  slowly 
glided,  moved  aside  .  .  .  and  in  came  Muzzio. 
He  bowed,  opened  his  arms,  laughed  .  .  .  His 
fierce  arms  enfolded  Valeria's  waist ;  his 
parched  lips  burned  her  all  over. .  .  .  She  fell 
backwards  on  the  cushions. 

Moaning  with  horror,  after  long  struggles, 
Valeria  awaked.  Still  not  realising  where  she 
was  and  what  was  happening  to  her,  she  raised 
herself  on  her  bed,  looked  round  ...  A  tremor 
ran  over  her  whole  body.  .  .  .  Fabio  was  lying 
beside  her.  He  was  asleep  ;  but  his  face  in  the 
light  of  the  brilliant  full  moon  looking  in  at 
the  window  was  pale  as  a  corpse's  ...  it  was 
sadder  than  a  dead  face.  Valeria  waked  her 
husband,  and  directly  he  looked  at  her.  '  What 
is  the  matter  ?  '  he  cried.  *  I  had — I  had  a 
fearful  dream,'  she  whispered,  still  shuddering 
all  over. 

But  at  that  instant  from  the  direction  of  the 
pavilion  came  floating  powerful  sounds,  and 
both  Fabio  and  Valeria  recognised  the  melody 
Muzzio  had  played  to  them,  calling  it  the  song 
of  blissful  triumphant  love.  Fabio  looked  in 
perplexity  at  Valeria  .  .  .  she  closed  her  eyes, 
174 


THE   SONG   OF   TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 

turned  away,  and  both  holding  their  breath, 
heard  the  song  out  to  the  end.  As  the  last 
note  died  away,  the  moon  passed  behind  a 
cloud,  it  was  suddenly  dark  in  the  room.  .  .  . 
Both  the  young  people  let  their  heads  sink  on 
their  pillows  without  exchanging  a  word,  and 
neither  of  them  noticed  when  the  other  fell 
asleep. 


The  next  morning  Muzzio  came  in  to  break- 
fast; he  seemed  happy  and  greeted  Valeria 
cheerfully.  She  answered  him  in  confusion — 
stole  a  glance  at  him — and  felt  frightened  at 
the  sight  of  that  serene  happy  face,  those 
piercing  and  inquisitive  eyes.  Muzzio  was 
beginning  again  to  tell  some  story  .  .  .  but 
Fabio  interrupted  him  at  the  first  word. 

'You  could  not  sleep,  I  see,  in  your  new 
quarters.  My  wife  and  I  heard  you  playing 
last  night's  song.' 

'  Yes !  Did  you  hear  it  ? '  said  Muzzio.  '  I 
played  it  indeed  ;  but  I  had  been  asleep  before 
that,  and  I  had  a  wonderful  dream  too.' 

Valeria  was  on  the  alert.  '  What  sort  of 
dream  ?  '  asked  Fabio. 

I7S 


DREAM   TALES 

*l  dreamed,'  answered  Muzzio,  not  taking  his 
eyes  off  Valeria,  *  I  was  entering  a  spacious 
apartment  with  a  ceiling  decorated  in  Oriental 
fashion,  carved  columns  supported  the  roof,  the 
walls  were  covered  with  tiles,  and  though  there 
were  neither  windows  nor  lights,  the  whole  room 
was  filled  with  a  rosy  light,  just  as  though  it 
were  all  built  of  transparent  stone.  In  the 
corners,  Chinese  censers  were  smoking,  on  the 
floor  lay  brocaded  cushions  along  a  narrow  rug. 
I  went  in  through  a  door  covered  with  a 
curtain,  and  at  another  door  just  opposite 
appeared  a  woman  whom  I  once  loved.  And 
so  beautiful  she  seemed  to  me,  that  I  was  all 
aflame  with  my  old  love  .  .  .' 

Muzzio  broke  off*  significantly.  Valeria  sat 
motionless,  and  only  gradually  she  turned 
white  .  .  .  and  she  drew  her  breath  more 
slowly. 

•  Then,'  continued  Muzzio, '  I  waked  up  and 
played  that  song.' 

•  But  who  was  that  woman  ? '  said  Fabio. 
•Who  was  she?     The  wife  of  an  Indian — I 

met  her  in  the  town  of  Delhi  .  .  ,  She  is  not 
alive  now — she  died.* 

•  And  her  husband  ? '  asked  Fabio,  not  know- 
ing why  he  asked  the  question. 

'  Her  husband,  too,  they  say  is  dead.     I  soon 
lost  sight  of  them  both.' 
176 


THE  SONG  OF  TRIUMPHANT  LOVE 

*  Strange ! '  observed  Fabio.  *  My  wife  too 
had  an  extraordinary  dream  last  night' — 
Muzzio  gazed  intently  at  Valeria — *  which  she 
did  not  tell  me,'  added  Fabio. 

But  at  this  point  Valeria  got  up  and  went 
out  of  the  room.  Immediately  after  breakfast, 
Muzzio  too  went  away,  explaining  that  he  had 
to  be  in  Ferrara  on  business,  and  that  he  would 
not  be  back  before  the  evening. 


VI 


A  FEW  weeks  before  Muzzio's  return,  Fabio 
had  begun  a  portrait  of  his  wife,  depicting  her 
with  the  attributes  of  Saint  Cecilia.  He  had 
made  considerable  advance  in  nis  art ;  the  re- 
nowned Luini,  a  pupil  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci, 
used  to  come  to  him  at  Ferrara,  and  while  aid- 
ing him  with  his  own  counsels,  pass  on  also  the 
precepts  of  his  great  master.  The  portrait  was 
almost  completely  finished ;  all  that  was  left 
was  to  add  a  few  strokes  to  the  face,  and 
Fabio  might  well  be  proud  of  his  creation. 
After  seeing  Muzzio  off  on  his  way  to  Ferrara, 
he  turned  into  his  studio,  where  Valeria  was 
usually  waiting  for  him  ;  but  he  did  not  find 
177  ^f 


DREAM   TALES 

her  there ;  he  called  her,  she  did  not  respond. 
Fabio  was  overcome  by  a  secret  uneasiness  ;  he 
began  looking  for  her.  She  was  nowhere  in  the 
house  ;  Fabio  ran  into  the  garden,  and  there  in 
one  of  the  more  secluded  walks  he  caught  sight 
of  Valeria.  She  was  sitting  on  a  seat,  her  head 
drooping  on  to  her  bosom  and  her  hands  folded 
upon  her  knees  ;  while  behind  her,  peeping  out 
of  the  dark  green  of  a  cypress,  a  marble  satyr, 
with  a  distorted  malignant  grin  on  his  face,  was 
putting  his  pouting  Hps  to  a  Pan's  pipe.  Valeria 
was  visibly  relieved  at  her  husband's  appearance, 
and  to  his  agitated  questions  she  replied  that 
she  had  a  slight  headache,  but  that  it  was  of  no 
consequence,  and  she  was  ready  to  come  to  sit 
to  him.  Fabio  led  her  to  the  studio,  posed  her, 
and  took  up  his  brush ;  but  to  his  great  vexa- 
tion, he  could  not  finish  the  face  as  he  would 
have  liked  to.  And  not  because  it  was  some- 
what pale  and  looked  exhausted  ...  no ;  but 
the  pure,  saintly  expression,  which  he  liked  so 
much  in  it,  and  which  had  given  him  the  idea 
of  painting  Valeria  as  Saint  Cecilia,  he  could 
not  find  in  it  that  day,  He  flung  down  the 
brush  at  last,  told  his  wife  he  was  not  in  the 
mood  for  work,  and  that  he  would  not  prevent 
her  from  lying  down,  as  she  did  not  look  at  all 
well,  and  put  the  canvas  with  its  face  to  the 
wall.  Valeria  agreed  with  him  that  she  ought 
178 


THE   SONG  OF    TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 

to   rest,   and    repeating    her   complaints   of  a 
headache,  withdrew  into  her  bedroom. 

Fabio  remained  in  the  studio.  He  felt  a 
strange  confused  sensation  incomprehensible  to 
himself.  Muzzio's  stay  under  his  roof,  to  which 
he,  Fabio,  had  himself  urgently  invited  him,  was 
irksome  to  him.  And  not  that  he  was  jealous 
— could  any  one  have  been  jealous  of  Valeria  ! 
— but  he  did  not  recognise  his  former  comrade 
in  his  friend.  All  that  was  strange,  unknown 
and  new  that  Muzzio  had  brought  with  him 
from  those  distant  lands — and  which  seemed  to 
have  entered  into  his  very  flesh  and  blood — 
all  these  magical  feats,  songs,  strange  drinks, 
this  dumb  Malay,  even  the  spicy  fragrance 
diffused  by  Muzzio's  garments,  his  hair,  his 
breath — all  this  inspired  in  Fabio  a  sensation 
akin  to  distrust,  possibly  even  to  timidity. 
And  why  did  that  Malay  waiting  at  table  stare 
with  such  disagreeable  intentness  at  him,  Fabio  ? 
Really  any  one  might  suppose  that  he  under- 
stood Italian.  Muzzio  had  said  of  him  that  in 
losing  his  tongue,  this  Malay  had  made  a  great 
sacrifice,  and  in  return  he  was  now  possessed 
of  great  power.  What  sort  of  power  ?  and  how 
could  he  have  obtained  it  at  the  price  of  his 
tongue?  All  this  was  very  strange!  very  in- 
comprehensible !  Fabio  went  into  his  wife's 
room  ;  she  was  lying  on  the  bed,  dressed,  but 
179 


DREAM   TALES 

was  not  asleep.  Hearing  his  steps,  she  startea, 
then  again  seemed  delighted  to  see  him  just  as 
in  the  garden.  Fabio  sat  down  beside  the  bed, 
took  Valeria  by  the  hand,  and  after  a  short 
silence,  asked  her, '  What  was  the  extraordinary 
dream  that  had  frightened  her  so  the  previous 
night  ?  And  was  it  the  same  sort  at  all  as 
the  dream  Muzzio  had  described?'  Valeria 
crimsoned  and  said  hurriedly  :  '  O  !  no !  no ! 
I  saw  ...  a  sort  of  monster  which  was  trying 
to  tear  me  to  pieces.'  *  A  monster  ?  in  the 
shape  of  a  man  ?  '  asked  Fabio.  '  No,  a  beast 
...  a  beast ! '  Valeria  turned  away  and  hid 
her  burning  face  in  the  pillows.  Fabio  held 
his  wife's  hand  some  time  longer ;  silently  he 
raised  it  to  his  lips,  and  withdrew. 

Both  the  young  people  passed  that  day  with 
heavy  hearts.  Something  dark  seemed  hanging 
over  their  heads  .  .  .  but  what  it  was,  they 
could  not  tell.  They  wanted  to  be  together, 
as  though  some  danger  threatened  them  ;  but 
what  to  say  to  one  another  they  did  not  know. 
Fabio  made  an  effort  to  take  up  the  portrait, 
and  to  read  Ariosto,  whose  poem  had  appeared 
not  long  before  in  Ferrara,  and  was  now  making 
a  noise  all  over  Italy ;  but  nothing  was  of  any 
use.  .  .  .  Late  in  the  evening,  just  at  supper- 
time,  Muzzio  returned. 


i8o 


THE  SONG  OF  TRIUMPHANT  LOVE 


VII 

He  seemed  composed  and  cheerful — but  he 
told  them  little ;  he  devoted  himself  rather  to 
questioning  Fabio  about  their  common  ac- 
quaintances, about  the  German  war,  and  the 
Emperor  Charles :  he  spoke  of  his  own  desire 
to  visit  Rome,  to  see  the  new  Pope.  He  again 
offered  Valeria  some  Shiraz  wine,  and  on  her 
refusal,  observed  as  though  to  himself,  '  Now  it 's 
not  needed,  to  be  sure.'  Going  back  with  his 
wife  to  their  room,  Fabio  soon  fell  asleep ;  and 
waking  up  an  hour  later,  felt  a  conviction  that 
no  one  was  sharing  his  bed  ;  Valeria  was  not 
beside  him.  He  got  up  quickly  and  at  the  same 
instant  saw  his  wife  in  her  night  attire  coming 
out  of  the  garden  into  the  room.  The  moon  was 
shining  brightly,  though  not  long  before  a  light 
rain  had  been  falling.  With  eyes  closed,  with 
an  expression  of  mysterious  horror  on  her  im- 
movable face,  Valeria  approached  the  bed,  and 
feeling  for  it  with  her  hands  stretched  out 
before  her,  lay  down  hurriedly  and  in  silence. 
Fabio  turned  to  her  with  a  question,  but  she 
made  no  reply  ;  she  seemed  to  be  asleep.  He 
touched  her,  and  felt  on  her  dress  and  on  her 
hair  drops  of  rain,  and  on  the  soles  of  her  bare 
feet,  little  grains  of  sand.     Then  he  leapt  up 


DREAM   TALES 

and  ran  into  the  garden  through  the  half-open 
door.  The  crude  brilliance  of  the  moon  wrapt 
every  object  in  light.  Fabio  looked  about  him, 
and  perceived  on  the  sand  of  the  path  prints 
of  two  pairs  of  feet — one  pair  were  bare ;  and 
these  prints  led  to  a  bower  of  jasmine,  on  one 
side,  between  the  pavilion  and  the  house.  He 
stood  still  in  perplexity,  and  suddenly  once 
more  he  heard  the  strains  of  the  song  he  had 
listened  to  the  night  before,  Fabio  shuddered, 
ran  into  the  pavilion  .  .  .  .Muzzio  was  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  playing  on  the  violin. 
Fabio  rushed  up  to  him. 

'  You  have  been  in  the  garden,  your  clothes 
are  wet  with  rain.' 

'No  .  .  .  I  don't  know  ...  I  think  ...  I 
have  not  been  out  .  .  .'  Muzzio  answered 
slowly,  seeming  amazed  at  Fabio's  entrance 
and  his  excitement. 

Fabio  seized  him  by  the  hand.  '  And  why 
are  you  playing  that  melody  again  ?  Have  you 
had  a  dream  again  ? ' 

Muzzio  glanced  at  Fabio  with  the  same  look 
of  amazement,  and  said  nothing. 

*  Answer  me ! ' 

*  "  The  moon  stood  high  like  a  round  shield  .  .  . 

Like  a  snake,  the  river  shines  .  .  , 
The  friend 's  awake,  the  foe  's  asleep  .  .  . 
The  bird  is  in  the  Eicon's  clutches  .  .  .  Help  I " ' 
182 


THE   SONG   OF   TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 

muttered  Muzzio,  humming  to  himself  as 
though  in  delirium. 

Fabio  stepped  back  two  paces,  stared  at 
Muzzio,  pondered  a  moment  .  .  .  and  went 
back  to  the  house,  to  his  bedroom. 

Valeria,  her  head  sunk  on  her  shoulder  and 
her  hands  hanging  lifelessly,  was  in  a  heavy 
sleep.  He  could  not  quickly  awaken  her  .  .  . 
but  directly  she  saw  him,  she  flung  herself  on 
his  neck,  and  embraced  him  convulsively ;  she 
was  trembling  all  over.  'What  is  the  matter, 
my  precious,  what  is  it  ?  '  Fabio  kept  repeating, 
trying  to  soothe  her.  But  she  still  lay  lifeless 
on  his  breast.  'Ah,  what  fearful  dreams  I 
have ! '  she  whispered,  hiding  her  face  against 
him.  Fabio  would  have  questioned  her  .  .  . 
but  she  only  shuddered.  The  window-panes 
were  flushed  with  the  early  light  of  morning 
when  at  last  she  fell  asleep  in  his  arms. 


VIII 

The  next  day  Muzzio  disappeared  from  early 
morning,  while  Valeria  informed  her  husband 
that  she  intended  to  go  away  to  a  neighbouring 
monastery,  where  lived  her  spiritual  father,  an 
old  and  austere  monk,  in  whom  she  placed  un- 
183 


DREAM  TALES 

bounded  confidence.  To  Fabio's  inquiries  she 
replied,  that  she  wanted  by  confession  to  relieve 
her  soul,  which  was  weighed  down  by  the  ex- 
ceptional impressions  of  the  last  few  days.  As 
he  looked  upon  Valeria's  sunken  face,  and 
listened  to  her  faint  voice,  Fabio  approved  of 
her  plan  ;  the  worthy  Father  Lorenzo  might 
give  her  valuable  advice,  and  might  disperse  her 
doubts.  .  .  .  Under  the  escort  of  four  attendants, 
Valeria  set  off  to  the  monastery,  while  Fabio 
remained  at  home,  and  wandered  about  the 
garden  till  his  wife's  return,  trying  to  compre- 
hend what  had  happened  to  her,  and  a  victim 
to  constant  fear  and  wrath,  and  the  pain  of 
undefined  suspicions.  .  .  .  More  than  once  he 
went  up  to  the  pavilion  ;  but  Muzzio  had  not 
returned,  and  the  Malay  gazed  at  Fabio  like  a 
statue,  obsequiously  bowing  his  head,  with  a 
well-dissembled — so  at  least  it  seemed  to  Fabio 
— smile  on  his  bronzed  face.  Meanwhile,  Valeria 
had  in  confession  told  everything  to  her  priest, 
not  so  much  with  shame  as  with  horror. 
The  priest  heard  her  attentively,  gave  her  his 
blessing,  absolved  her  from  her  involuntary  sin, 
but  to  himself  he  thought :  '  Sorcery,  the  arts  of 
the  devil  .  .  .  the  matter  can't  be  left  so,'  .  .  . 
and  he  returned  with  Valeria  to  her  villa,  as 
though  with  the  aim  of  completely  pacifying 
and  reassuring  her.  At  the  sight  of  the  priest 
184 


THE   SONG   OF   TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 

Fabio  was  thrown  into  some  agitation  ;  but  the 
experienced  old  man  had  thought  out  before- 
hand how  he  must  treat  him.  When  he  was 
left  alone  with  Fabio,  he  did  not  of  course 
betray  the  secrets  of  the  confessional,  but  he 
advised  him  if  possible  to  get  rid  of  the  guest 
they  had  invited  to  their  house,  as  by  his  stories, 
his  songs,  and  his  whole  behaviour  he  was 
troubling  the  imagination  of  Valeria.  Moreover, 
in  the  old  man's  opinion,  Muzzio  had  not,  he 
remembered,  been  very  firm  in  the  faith  in 
former  days,  and  having  spent  so  long  a  time  in 
lands  unenlightened  by  the  truths  of  Christianity, 
he  might  well  have  brought  thence  the  con- 
tagion of  false  doctrine,  might  even  have  become 
conversant  with  secret  magic  arts  ;  and,  there- 
fore, though  long  friendship  had  indeed  its 
claims,  still  a  wise  prudence  pointed  to  the 
necessity  of  separation.  Fabio  fully  agreed 
with  the  excellent  monk.  Valeria  was  even 
joyful  when  her  husband  reported  to  her  the 
priest's  counsel ;  and  sent  on  his  way  with  the 
cordial  good-will  of  both  the  young  people, 
loaded  with  good  gifts  for  the  monastery  and 
the  poor,  Father  Lorenzo  returned  home. 

Fabio  intended  to  have  an  explanation  with 

Muzzio    immediately    after    supper ;     but    his 

strange  guest  did  not  return  to  supper.     Then 

Fabio  decided  to  defer  his  conversation  with 

i8s 


DREAM   TALES 


Muzzio  until  the  following  day ;  and  both  the 
young  people  retired  to  rest. 


IX 


Valeria  soon  fell  asleep  ;  but  Fabio  could  not 
sleep.  In  the  stillness  of  the  night,  everything 
he  had  seen,  everything  he  had  felt  presented 
itself  more  vividly ;  he  put  to  himself  still 
more  insistently  questions  to  which  as  before 
he  could  find  no  answer.  Had  Muzzio  really 
become  a  sorcerer,  and  had  he  not  already 
poisoned  Valeria?  She  was  ill  .  .  .  but  what 
was  her  disease  ?  While  he  lay,  his  head  in  his 
hand,  holding  his  feverish  breath,  and  given  up 
to  painful  reflection,  the  moon  rose  again  upon 
a  cloudless  sky  ;  and  together  with  its  beams, 
through  the  half-transparent  window-panes, 
there  began,  from  the  direction  of  the  pavilion 
— or  was  it  Fabio's  fancy  ? — to  come  a  breath, 
like  a  light,  fragrant  current  .  .  .  then  an  urgent, 
passionate  murmur  was  heard  .  .  .  and  at  that 
instant  he  observed  that  Valeria  was  beginning 
faintly  to  stir.  He  started,  looked  ;  she  rose  up, 
slid  first  one  foot,  then  the  other  out  of  the  bed, 
and  like  one  bewitched  of  the  moon,  her  sight- 
less eyes  fixed  lifelessly  before  her,  her  hands 
1 86 


THE   SONG   OF   TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 

stretched  out,  she  began  moving  towards  the  gar- 
den !  Fabio  instantly  ran  out  of  the  other  door 
of  the  room, and  runningquickly  round  the  corner 
of  the  house,  bolted  the  door  that  led  into  the 
garden.  .  .  .  He  had  scarcely  time  to  grasp  at 
the  bolt,  when  he  felt  some  one  trying  to  open 
the  door  from  the  inside,  pressing  against  it  .  . . 
again  and  again  .  .  .  and  then  there  was  the 
sound  of  piteous  passionate  moans  .  .  . 

'But  Muzzio  has  not  come  back  from  the 
town,'  flashed  through  Fabio's  head,  and  he 
rushed  to  the  pavilion  .  ,  , 

What  did  he  see  ? 

Coming  towards  him,  along  the  path  daz- 
zHngly  lighted  up  by  the  moon's  rays,  was 
Muzzio,  he  too  moving  like  one  moonstruck,  his 
hands  held  out  before  him,  and  his  eyes  open  but 
unseeing.  .  .  .  Fabio  ran  up  to  him,  but  he,  not 
heeding  him,  moved  on,  treading  evenly,  step 
by  step,  and  his  rigid  face  smiled  in  the  moon- 
light like  the  Malay's.  Fabio  would  have  called 
him  by  his  name  .  .  .  but  at  that  instant  he 
heard,  behind  him  in  the  house,  the  creaking  of 
a  window.  .  .  .  He  looked  round.  .  .  . 

Yes,  the  window  of  the  bedroom  was  open 
from  top  to  bottom,  and  putting  one  foot  over 
the  sill,  Valeria  stood  in  the  window  .  .  .  her 
hands  seemed  to  be  seeking  Muzzio  .  .  .  she 
seemed  striving  all  over  towards  him.  .  ,  . 
187 


DREAM  TALES 

Unutterable  fury  filled  Fabio's  breast  with 
a  sudden  inrush.  '  Accursed  sorcerer ! '  he 
shrieked  furiously,  and  seizing  Muzzio  by  the 
throat  with  one  hand,  with  the  other  he  felt  for 
the  dagger  in  his  girdle,  and  plunged  the  blade 
into  his  side  up  to  the  hilt. 

Muzzio  uttered  a  shrill  scream,  and  clapping 
his  hand  to  the  wound,  ran  staggering  back  to 
the  pavilion.  .  .  .  But  at  the  very  same  instant 
when  Fabio  stabbed  him,  Valeria  screamed  just 
as  shrilly,  and  fell  to  the  earth  like  grass  before 
the  scythe. 

Fabio  flew  to  her,  raised  her  up,  carried  her 
to  the  bed,  began  to  speak  to  her.  .  .  . 

She  lay  a  long  time  motionless,  but  at  last 
she  opened  her  eyes,  heaved  a  deep,  broken, 
blissful  sigh,  like  one  just  rescued  from  im- 
minent death,  saw  her  husband,  and  twining  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  crept  close  to  him.  *  You, 
you,  it  is  you,'  she  faltered.  Gradually  her  hands 
loosened  their  hold,  her  head  sank  back,  and 
murmuring  with  a  blissful  smile,  *  Thank  God, 
it  is  all  over.  .  .  .  But  how  weary  I  am ! '  she 
fell  into  a  sound  but  not  heavy  sleep. 


i88 


THE   SONG  OF   TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 


Fabio  sank  down  beside  her  bed,  and  never 
taking  his  eyes  off  her  pale  and  sunken,  but 
already  calmer,  face,  began  reflecting  on  what 
had  happened  .  .  .  and  also  on  how  he  ought 
to  act  now.  What  steps  was  he  to  take?  If 
he  had  killed  Muzzio — and  remembering  how 
deeply  the  dagger  had  gone  in,  he  could  have 
no  doubt  of  it — it  could  not  be  hidden.  He 
would  have  to  bring  it  to  the  knowledge  of  the 
archduke,  of  the  judges  .  .  .  but  how  explain, 
how  describe  such  an  incomprehensible  affair  ? 
He,  Fabio,  had  killed  in  his  own  house  his  own 
kinsman,  his  dearest  friend?  They  will  in- 
quire. What  for  ?  on  what  ground  ?  .  .  .  But  if 
Muzzio  were  not  dead  ?  Fabio  could  not  endure 
to  remain  longer  in  uncertainty,  and  satisfying 
himself  that  Valeria  was  asleep,  he  cautiously 
got  up  from  his  chair,  went  out  of  the  house, 
and  made  his  way  to  the  pavilion.  Everything 
was  still  in  it ;  only  in  one  window  a  light  was 
visible.  With  a  sinking  heart  he  opened  the 
outer  door  (there  was  still  the  print  of  blood- 
stained fingers  on  it,  and  there  were  black  drops 
of  gore  on  the  sand  of  the  path),  passed  through 
the  first  dark  room  .  .  .  and  stood  still  on  the 
threshold,  overwhelmed  with  amazement. 
1 80 


DREAM   TALES 

In  the  middle  of  the  room,  on  a  Persian  rug, 
with  a  brocaded  cushion  under  his  head,  and 
all  his  limbs  stretched  out  straight,  lay  Muzzio, 
covered  with  a  wide,  red  shawl  with  a  black 
pattern  on  it.  His  face,  yellow  as  wax,  with 
closed  eyes  and  bluish  eyelids,  was  turned 
towards  the  ceiling,  no  breathing  could  be  dis- 
cerned :  he  seemed  a  corpse.  At  his  feet  knelt 
the  Malay,  also  wrapt  in  a  red  shawl.  He  was 
holding  in  his  left  hand  a  branch  of  some  un- 
known plant,  like  a  fern,  and  bending  slightly 
forward,  was  gazing  fixedly  at  his  master.  A 
small  torch  fixed  on  the  floor  burnt  with  a 
greenish  flame,  and  was  the  only  light  in  the 
room.  The  flame  did  not  flicker  nor  smoke. 
The  Malay  did  not  stir  at  Fabio's  entry,  he 
merely  turned  his  eyes  upon  him,  and  again  bent 
them  upon  Muzzio.  From  time  to  time  he  raised 
and  lowered  the  branch,  and  waved  it  in  the 
air,  and  his  dumb  lips  slowly  parted  and  moved 
as  though  uttering  soundless  words.  On  the 
floor  between  the  Malay  and  Muzzio  lay  the 
dagger,  with  which  Fabio  had  stabbed  his 
friend ;  the  Malay  struck  one  blow  with  the 
branch  on  the  blood-stained  blade.  A  minute 
passed  .  .  .  another.  Fabio  approached  the 
Malay,  and  stooping  down  to  him,  asked  in  an 
undertone,  *  Is  he  dead  ? '  The  Malay  bent  his 
head  from  above  downwards,  and  disentangling 
190 


THE   SONG   OF   TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 

his  right  hand  from  his  shawl,  he  pointed 
imperiously  to  the  door.  Fabio  would  have 
repeated  his  question,  but  the  gesture  of 
the  commanding  hand  was  repeated,  and 
Fabio  went  out,  indignant  and  wondering,  but 
obedient. 

He  found  Valeria  sleeping  as  before,  with  an 
even  more  tranquil  expression  on  her  face. 
He  did  not  undress,  but  seated  himself  by  the 
window,  his  head  in  his  hand,  and  once  more 
sank  into  thought.  The  rising  sun  found  him 
still  in  the  same  place.  Valeria  had  not  waked 
up. 


XI 

Fabio  intended  to  wait  till  she  awakened,  and 
then  to  set  off  to  Ferrara,  when  suddenly  some 
one  tapped  lightly  at  the  bedroom  door.  Fabio 
went  out,  and  saw  his  old  steward,  Antonio. 
'  Signor,'  began  the  old  man,  '  the  Malay  has 
just  informed  me  that  Signor  Muzzio  has  been 
taken  ill,  and  wishes  to  be  moved  with  all  his 
belongings  to  the  town  ;  and  that  he  begs  you 
to  let  him  have  servants  to  assist  in  packing 
his  things  ;  and  that  at  dinner-time  you  would 
send  pack-horses,  and  saddle-horses,  and  a  few 
191 


DREAM   TALES 

attendants  for  the  journey.  Do  you  allow  it  ? ' 
'  The  Malay  informed  you  of  this  ? '  asked 
Fabio.  '  In  what  manner  ?  Why,  he  is  dumb.' 
'  Here,  signor,  is  the  paper  on  which  he  wrote 
all  this  in  our  language,  and  very  correctly.' 

*  And  Muzzio,  you  say,  is  ill  ? '  *  Yes,  he  is  very 
ill,  and  can  see  no  one.'  *  Have  they  sent  for  a 
doctor?'  *No.  The  Malay  forbade  it.'  'And 
was  it  the  Malay  wrote  you  this?'  'Yes,  it 
was  he.'  Fabio  did  not  speak  for  a  moment. 
'Well,  then,  arrange  it  all,'  he  said  at  last. 
Antonio  withdrew. 

Fabio  looked  after  his  servant  in  bewilder- 
ment. 'Then,  he  is  not  dead?'  he  thought 
.  .  .  and  he  did  not  know  whether  to  rejoice  or 
to  be  sorry.  '111?'  But  a  few  hours  ago  it 
was  a  corpse  he  had  looked  upon  ! 

Fabio  returned  to  Valeria.  She  waked  up 
and  raised  her  head.  The  husband  and  wife 
exchanged  a  long  look  full  of  significance. 
'  He  is  gone  ? '  Valeria  said  suddenly.  Fabio 
shuddered.     '  How  gone  ?     Do  you  mean  .  .  . ' 

*  Is  he  gone  away?'  she  continued.  A  load  fell 
from  Fabio's  heart.  '  Not  yet ;  but  he  is  going 
to-day.'  'And  I  shall  never,  never  see  him 
again?*  'Never.'  'And  these  dreams  will 
not  come  again  ?  '  '  No.'  Valeria  again  heaved 
a  sigh  of  relief;  a  blissful  smile  once  more 
appeared  on  her  lips.    She  held  out  both  hands 

192 


THE  SONG  OF  TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 

to  her  husband.  '  And  we  will  never  speak  of 
him,  never,  do  you  hear,  my  dear  one  ?  And 
I  will  not  leave  my  room  till  he  is  gone.  And 
do  you  now  send  me  my  maids  .  .  .  but  stay : 
take  away  that  thing ! '  she  pointed  to  the 
pearl  necklace,  lying  on  a  little  bedside  table, 
the  necklace  given  her  by  Muzzio,  '  and  throw 
it  at  once  into  our  deepest  well.  Embrace  me. 
I  am  your  Valeria  ;  and  do  not  come  in  to  me 
till  ...  he  has  gone.'  Fabio  took  the  necklace 
— the  pearls  he  fancied  looked  tarnished — and 
did  as  his  wife  had  directed.  Then  he  fell  to 
wandering  about  the  garden,  looking  from  a 
distance  at  the  pavilion,  about  which  the  bustle 
of  preparations  for  departure  was  beginning. 
Servants  were  bringing  out  boxes,  loading  the 
horses  .  .  .  but  the  Malay  was  not  among 
them.  An  irresistible  impulse  drew  Fabio  to 
look  once  more  upon  what  was  taking  place  in 
the  pavilion.  He  recollected  that  there  was  at 
the  back  a  secret  door,  by  which  he  could  reach 
the  inner  room  where  Muzzio  had  been  lying 
in  the  morning.  He  stole  round  to  this  door 
found  it  unlocked,  and,  parting  the  folds  of  a 
heavy  curtain,  turned  a  faltering  glance  upon 
the  room  within. 


<93 


DREAM  TALES 


XII 


MUZZIO  was  not  now  lying  on  the  rug.  Dressed 
as  though  for  a  journey,  he  sat  in  an  arm-chair, 
but  seemed  a  corpse,  just  as  on  Fabio's  first 
visit.  His  torpid  head  fell  back  on  the  chair, 
and  his  outstretched  hands  hung  lifeless,  yellow, 
and  rigid  on  his  knees.  His  breast  did  not 
heave.  Near  the  chair  on  the  floor,  which  was 
strewn  with  dried  herbs,  stood  some  flat  bowls 
of  dark  liquid,  which  exhaled  a  powerful,  almost 
suffocating,  odour,  the  odour  of  musk.  Around 
each  bowl  was  coiled  a  small  snake  of  brazen 
hue,  with  golden  eyes  that  flashed  from  time  to 
time ;  while  directly  facing  Muzzio,  two  paces 
from  him,  rose  the  long  figure  of  the  Malay, 
wrapt  in  a  mantle  of  many-coloured  brocade, 
girt  round  the  waist  with  a  tiger's  tail,  with  a 
high  hat  of  the  shape  of  a  pointed  tiara  on  his 
head.  But  he  was  not  motionless :  at  one 
moment  he  bowed  down  reverently,  and  seemed 
to  be  praying,  at  the  next  he  drew  himself  up 
to  his  full  height,  even  rose  on  tiptoe  ;  then, 
with  a  rhythmic  action,  threw  wide  his  arms, 
and  moved  them  persistently  in  the  direction 
of  Muzzio,  and  seemed  to  threaten  or  command 
him,  frowning  and  stamping  with  his  foot.  All 
these  actions  seemed  to  cost  him  great  effort, 
194 


THE   SONG   OF   TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 

even  to  cause  him  pain  :  he  breathed  heavily, 
the  sweat  streamed  down  his  face.  All  at  once 
he  sank  down  to  the  ground,  and  drawing  in  a 
full  breath,  with  knitted  brow  and  immense 
effort,  drew  his  clenched  hands  towards  him, 
as  though  he  were  holding  reins  in  them  .  .  . 
and  to  the  indescribable  horror  of  Fabio,  Muz- 
zio's  head  slowly  left  the  back  of  the  chair,  and 
moved  forward,  following  the  Malay's  hands. 
.  .  .  The  Malay  let  them  fall,  and  Muzzio's 
head  fell  heavily  back  again  ;  the  Malay  re- 
peated his  movements,  and  obediently  the 
head  repeated  them  after  him.  The  dark 
liquid  in  the  bowls  began  boiling ;  the  bowls 
themselves  began  to  resound  with  a  faint  bell- 
like note,  and  the  brazen  snakes  coiled  freely 
about  each  of  them.  Then  the  Malay  took  a 
step  forward,  and  raising  his  .eyebrows  and 
opening  his  eyes  immensely  wide,  he  bowed 
his  head  to  Muzzio  .  .  .  and  the  eyelids  of  the 
dead  man  quivered,  parted  uncertainly,  and 
under  them  could  be  seen  the  eyeballs,  dull  as 
lead.  The  Malay's  face  was  radiant  with 
triumphant  pride  and  delight,  a  delight  almost 
malignant ;  he  opened  his  mouth  wide,  and 
from  the  depths  of  his  chest  there  broke  out 
with  effort  a  prolonged  howl.  .  .  .  Muzzio's  lips 
parted  too,  and  a  faint  moan  quivered  on  them 
in  response  to  that  inhuman  sound.  .  .  . 
195 


DREAM   TALES 

But  at  this  point  Fabio  could  endure  it  no 
longer ;  he  imagined  he  was  present  at  some 
devilish  incantation  !  He  too  uttered  a  shriek 
and  rushed  out,  running  home,  home  as  quick 
as  possible,  without  looking  round,  repeating 
prayers  and  crossing  himself  as  he  ran. 


xin 

Three  hours  later,  Antonio  came  to  him  with 
the  announcement  that  everything  was  ready, 
the  things  were  packed,  and  Signor  Muzzio 
was  preparing  to  start  Without  a  word  in 
answer  to  his  servant,  Fabio  went  out  on  to 
the  terrace,  whence  the  pavilion  could  be  seen. 
A  few  pack-horses  were  grouped  before  it;  a 
powerful  raven  horse,  saddled  for  two  riders, 
was  led  up  to  the  steps,  where  servants  were 
standing  bare-headed,  together  with  armed 
attendants.  The  door  of  the  pavilion  opened, 
and  supported  by  the  Malay,  who  wore  once 
more  his  ordinary  attire,  appeared  Muzzio. 
His  face  was  death-like,  and  his  hands  hung 
like  a  dead  man's — but  he  walked  .  .  .  yes, 
positively  walked,  and,  seated  on  the  charger, 
he  sat  upright  and  felt  for  and  found  the  reins 
The  Malay  put  his  feet  in  the  stirrups,  leaped 
196 


THE   SONG  OF  TRIUMPHANT   LOVE 

up  behind  him  on  the  saddle,  put  his  arm  round 
him,  and  the  whole  party  started.  The  horses 
moved  at  a  walking  pace,  and  when  they  turned 
round  before  the  house,  Fabio  fancied  that  in 
Muzzio's  dark  face  there  gleamed  two  spots  ot 
white.  .  .  .  Could  it  be  he  had  turned  his  eyes 
upon  him  ?  Only  the  Malay  bowed  to  him  .  .  . 
ironically,  as  ever. 

Did  Valeria  see  all  this  ?  The  blinds  of  her 
windows  were  drawn  .  .  .  but  it  may  be  she 
was  standing  behind  them. 


xrv 

At  dinner-time  she  came  into  the  dining-room, 
and  was  very  quiet  and  affectionate ;  she  still 
complained,  however,  of  weariness.  But  there 
was  no  agitation  about  her  now,  none  of  her 
former  constant  bewilderment  and  secret  dread ; 
and  when,  the  day  after  Muzzio's  departure, 
Fabio  set  to  work  again  on  her  portrait,  he 
found  in  her  features  the  pure  expression,  the 
momentary  eclipse  of  which  had  so  troubled 
him  .  .  .  and  his  brush  moved  lightly  and 
faithfully  over  the  canvas. 

The  husband  and  wife  took  up  their  old  life 
again.    Muzzio  vanished  for  them  as  though  he 
197 


DREAM   TALES 

had  never  existed.  Fabio  and  Valeria  were 
agreed,  as  it  seemed,  not  to  utter  a  syllable 
referring  to  him,  not  to  learn  anything  of  his 
later  days  ;  his  fate  remained,  however,  a  mys- 
tery for  all.  Muzzio  did  actually  disappear, 
as  though  he  had  sunk  into  the  earth.  Fabio 
one  day  thought  it  his  duty  to  tell  Valeria 
exactly  what  had  taken  place  on  that  fatal 
night  .  .  .  but  she  probably  divined  his  inten- 
tion, and  she  held  her  breath,  half-shutting  her 
eyes,  as  though  she  were  expecting  a  blow.  .  .  . 
And  Fabio  understood  her  ;  he  did  not  inflict 
that  blow  upon  her. 

One  fine  autumn  day,  Fabio  was  putting  the 
last  touches  to  his  picture  of  his  Cecilia  ;  Valeria 
sat  at  the  organ,  her  fingers  straying  at  random 
over  the  keys.  .  .  .  Suddenly,  without  her 
knowing  it,  from  under  her  hands  came  the 
first  notes  of  that  song  of  triumphant  love  which 
Muzzio  had  once  played  ;  and  at  the  same 
instant,  for  the  first  time  since  her  marriage, 
she  felt  within  her  the  throb  of  a  new  palpitat- 
ing life.  .  .  .  Valeria  started,  stopped.  .  .  . 

What  did  it  mean  ?     Could  it  be  .  .  , 

At  this  word  the  manuscript  ended. 


198 


THE    DREAM 


THE     DREAM 


I  WAS  living  at  that  time  with  my  mother  in  a 
little  seaside  town.  I  was  in  my  seventeenth 
year,  while  my  mother  was  not  quite  five-and- 
thirty ;  she  had  married  very  young.  When 
my  father  died,  I  was  only  seven  years  old,  but 
I  remember  him  well.  My  mother  was  a  fair- 
haired  woman,  not  very  tall,  with  a  charming, 
but  alway  sad-looking  face,  a  soft,  tired  voice 
and  timid  gestures.  In  her  youth  she  had  been 
reputed  a  beauty,  and  to  the  end  she  remained 
attractive  and  pretty.  I  have  never  seen  deeper, 
tenderer,  and  sadder  eyes,  finer  and  softer  hair ; 
I  never  saw  hands  so  exquisite.  I  adored  her, 
and  she  loved  me.  .  .  .  But  our  life  was  not 
a  bright  one ;  a  secret,  hopeless,  undeserved 
sorrow  seemed  for  ever  gnawing  at  the  very 
root  of  her  being.  This  sorrow  could  not  be 
accounted  for  by  the  loss  of  my  father  simply, 
great  as  that  loss  was  to  her,  passionately  as  my 


DREAM   TALES 

mother  had  loved  him,  and  devoutly  as  she  had 
cherished  his  memory.  .  .  .  No !  something 
more  lay  hidden  in  it,  which  I  did  not  under- 
stand, but  of  which  I  was  aware,  dimly  and  yet 
intensely  aware,  whenever  I  looked  into  those 
soft  and  unchanging  eyes,  at  those  lips,  un- 
changing too,  not  compressed  in  bitterness,  but, 
as  it  were,  for  ever  set  in  one  expression. 

I  have  said  that  my  mother  loved  me ;  but 
there  were  moments  when  she  repulsed  me, 
when  my  presence  was  oppressive  to  her,  un- 
endurable. At  such  times  she  felt  a  sort  of 
involuntary  aversion  for  me,  and  was  horrified 
afterwards,  blamed  herself  with  tears,  pressed 
me  to  her  heart.  I  used  to  ascribe  these 
momentary  outbreaks  of  dislike  to  the  derange- 
ment of  her  health,  to  her  unhappiness.  .  .  . 
These  antagonistic  feelings  might  indeed,  to 
some  extent,  have  been  evoked  by  certain 
strange  outbursts  of  wicked  and  criminal  pas- 
sions, which  arose  from  time  to  time  in  me, 
though  I  could  not  myself  account  for  them 

But  these  evil  outbursts  were  never  coincident 
with  the  moments  of  aversion.  My  mother 
always  wore  black,  as  though  in  mourning.  We 
were  in  fairly  good  circumstances,  but  we  hardly 
knew  any  one. 


202 


THE  DREAM 


II 


My  mother  concentrated  her  every  thought,  her 
every  care,  upon  me.  Her  life  was  wrapped 
up  in  my  life.  That  sort  of  relation  between 
parents  and  children  is  not  always  good  for  the 
children  ...  it  is  rather  apt  to  be  harmful  to 
them.  Besides,  I  was  my  mother's  only  son 
.  .  .  and  only  children  generally  grow  up  in 
a  one-sided  way.  In  bringing  them  up,  the 
parents  think  as  much  of  themselves  as  of  them. 
.  .  .  That 's  not  the  right  way.  I  was  neither 
spoiled  nor  made  hard  by  it  (one  or  the  other 
is  apt  to  be  the  fate  of  only  children),  but  my 
nerves  were  unhinged  for  a  time ;  moreover,  I 
was  rather  delicate  in  health,  taking  after  my 
mother,  whom  I  was  very  like  in  face.  I 
avoided  the  companionship  of  boys  of  my  own 
age  ;  I  held  aloof  from  people  altogether ;  even 
with  my  mother  I  talked  very  little.  I  liked 
best  reading,  solitary  walks,  and  dreaming, 
dreaming !  What  my  dreams  were  about,  it 
would  be  hard  to  say ;  sometimes,  indeed,  I 
seemed  to  stand  at  a  half-open  door,  beyond 
which  lay  unknown  mysteries,  to  stand  and 
wait,  half  dead  with  emotion,  and  not  to  step 
over  the  threshold,  but  still  pondering  what  lay 
203 


DREAM   TALES 

beyond,  still  to  wait  till  I  turned  faint  ...  or 
fell  asleep.  If  there  had  been  a  vein  of  poetry 
in  me,  I  should  probably  have  taken  to  writing 
verses  ;  if  I  had  felt  an  inclination  for  religion, 
I  should  perhaps  have  gone  into  a  monastery  ; 
but  I  had  no  tendency  of  the  sort,  and  I  went 
on  dreaming  and  waiting. 


Ill 


I  HAVE  just  mentioned  that  I  used  sometimes 
to  fall  asleep  under  the  influence  of  vague 
dreams  and  reveries.  I  used  to  sleep  a  great 
deal  at  all  times,  and  dreams  played  an  im- 
portant part  in  my  life  ;  I  used  to  have  dreams 
almost  every  night.  I  did  not  forget  them,  I 
attributed  a  significance  to  them,  regarded  them 
as  fore-warnings,  tried  to  divine  their  secret 
meaning ;  some  of  them  were  repeated  from 
time  to  time,  which  always  struck  me  as  strange 
and  marvellous.  I  was  particularly  perplexed 
by  one  dream.  I  dreamed  I  was  going  along 
a  narrow,  ill-paved  street  of  an  old-fashioned 
town,  between  stone  houses  of  many  stories, 
with  pointed  roofs.  I  was  looking  for  my 
father,  who  was  not  dead,  but,  for  some  reason 
204 


THE   DREAM 

or  other,  hiding  away  from  us,  and  living  in  one 
of  these  very  houses.  And  so  I  entered  a 
low,  dark  gateway,  crossed  a  long  courtyard, 
lumbered  up  with  planks  and  beams,  and  made 
my  way  at  last  into  a  little  room  with  two 
round  windows.  In  the  middle  of  the  room 
stood  my  father  in  a  dressing-gown,  smoking  a 
pipe.  He  was  not  in  the  least  like  my  real 
father  ;  he  was  tall  and  thin,  with  black  hair,  a 
hook  nose,  with  sullen  and  piercing  eyes ;  he 
looked  about  forty.  He  was  displeased  at  my 
having  found  him ;  and  I  too  was  far  from 
being  delighted  at  our  meeting,  and  stood  still 
in  perplexity.  He  turned  a  little  away,  began 
muttering  something,  and  walking  up  and  down 
with  short  steps.  .  .  Then  he  gradually  got 
farther  away,  never  ceasing  his  muttering,  and 
continually  looking  back  over  his  shoulder  ;  the 
room  grew  larger  and  was  lost  in  fog.  ...  I 
felt  all  at  once  horrified  at  the  idea  that  I  was 
losing  my  father  again,  and  rushed  after  him,  but 
I  could  no  longer  see  him,  I  could  only  hear  his 
angry  muttering,  like  a  bear  growling.  .  .  .  My 
heart  sank  with  dread ;  I  woke  up  and  could 
not  for  a  long  while  get  to  sleep  again.  .  .  .  All 
the  following  day  I  pondered  on  this  dream, 
and  naturally  could  make  nothing  of  it 


205 


DREAM   TALES 


IV 


The  month  of  June  had  come.  The  town  in 
which  I  was  living  with  my  mother  became  ex- 
ceptionally lively  about  that  time.  A  number 
of  ships  were  in  the  harbour,  a  number  of  new 
faces  were  to  be  seen  in  the  streets.  I  liked  at 
such  times  to  wander  along  the  sea  front,  by 
caf6s  and  hotels,  to  stare  at  the  widely  differing 
figures  of  the  sailors  and  other  people,  sitting 
under  linen  awnings,  at  small  white  tables,  with 
pewter  pots  of  beer  before  them. 

As  I  passed  one  day  before  a  caf6,  I  caught 
sight  of  a  man  who  at  once  riveted  my  whole 
attention.  Dressed  in  a  long  black  full  coat, 
with  a  straw  hat  pulled  right  down  over  his 
eyes,  he  was  sitting  perfectly  still,  his  arms 
folded  across  his  chest.  The  straggling  curls  of 
his  black  hair  fell  almost  down  to  his  nose ;  his 
thin  lips  held  tight  the  mouthpiece  of  a  short 
pipe.  This  man  struck  me  as  so  familiar,  every 
feature  of  his  swarthy  yellow  face  were  so  unmis- 
takably imprinted  in  my  memory,  that  I  could 
not  help  stopping  short  before  him,  I  could  not 
help  asking  myself, '  Who  is  that  man  ?  where 
have  I  seen  him  ? '  Becoming  aware,  probably, 
of  my  intent  stare,  he  raised  his  black,  piercing 
206 


THE   DREAM 

eyes  upon  me.  ...  I  uttered  an  involuntary 
'Ah!'  .  .  . 

The  man  was  the  father  I  had  been  looking 
for,  the  father  I  had  beheld  in  my  dream ! 

There  was  no  possibility  of  mistake — the 
resemblance  was  too  striking.  The  very  coat 
even,  that  wrapped  his  spare  limbs  in  its  long 
skirts,  in  hue  and  cut,  recalled  the  dressing- 
gown  in  which  my  father  had  appeared  in  the 
dream. 

*  Am  I  not  asleep  now  ? '  I  wondered.  .  .  . 
No.  ...  It  was  daytime,  about  me  crowds  of 
people  were  bustling,  the  sun  was  shining 
brightly  in  the  blue  sky,  and  before  me  was  no 
phantom,  but  a  living  man. 

I  went  up  to  an  empty  table,  asked  for  a  pot 
of  beer  and  a  newspaper,  and  sat  down  not  far 
off  from  this  enigmatical  being. 


Putting  the  sheet  of  newspaper  on  a  level 
with  my  face,  I  continued  my  scrutiny  of  the 
stranger.  He  scarcely  stirred  at  all,  only  from 
time  to  time  raising  his  bowed  head.  He  was 
obviously  expecting  some  one.  I  gazed  and 
gazed.  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  fancied  I  must  have 
207 


DREAM  TALES 

imagined  it  all,  that  there  could  be  really  no 
resemblance,  that  I  had  given  way  to  a  half- 
unconscious  trick  of  the  imagination  .  .  .  but 
the  stranger  would  suddenly  turn  round  a  little 
in  his  seat,  or  slightly  raise  his  hand,  and  again  I 
all  but  cried  out,  again  I  saw  my 'dream-father' 
before  me  !  He  at  last  noticed  my  uncalled-for 
attention,  and  glancing  at  first  with  surprise 
and  then  with  annoyance  in  my  direction,  was 
on  the  point  of  getting  up,  and  knocked  down 
a  small  walking-stick  he  had  stood  against  the 
table.  I  instantly  jumped  up,  picked  it  up, 
and  handed  it  to  him.  My  heart  was  beating 
violently. 

He  gave  a  constrained  smile,  thanked  me, 
and  as  his  face  drew  closer  to  my  face,  he  lifted 
his  eyebrows  and  opened  his  mouth  a  little  as 
though  struck  by  something. 

*  You  are  very  polite,  young  man,'  he  began 
all  at  once  in  a  dry,  incisive,  nasal  voice. 
'  That 's  something  out  of  the  common  nowa- 
days. Let  me  congratulate  you ;  you  must 
have  been  well  brought  up  ? ' 

I  don't  remember  precisely  what  answer  I 
made ;  but  a  conversation  soon  sprang  up 
between  us.  I  learnt  that  he  was  a  fellow- 
countryman,  that  he  had  not  long  returned 
from  America,  where  he  had  spent  many  years, 
and  was  shortly  going  back  there.  He  called 
208 


THE   DREAM 

himself  Baron  .  .  .  the  name  I  could  not  make 
out  distinctly.  He,  just  like  my  '  dream-father,' 
ended  every  remark  with  a  sort  of  indistinct 
inward  mutter.  He  desired  to  learn  my  sur- 
name. .  .  .  On  hearing  it,  he  seemed  again 
astonished;  then  he  asked  me  if  I  had  lived 
long  in  the  town,  and  with  whom  I  was  living. 
I  told  him  I  was  living  with  my  mother. 

*  And  your  father  ? '  *  My  father  died  long 
ago.'  He  inquired  my  mother's  Christian  name, 
and  immediately  gave  an  awkward  laugh,  but 
apologised,  saying  that  he  picked  up  some 
American  ways,  and  was  rather  a  queer  fellow 
altogether.  Then  he  was  curious  to  know  what 
was  our  address.     I  told  him. 


VI 


The  excitement  which  had  possessed  me  at 
the  beginning  of  our  conversation  gradually 
calmed  down;  I  felt  our  meeting  rather  strange 
and  nothing  more.  I  did  not  like  the  little 
smile  with  which  the  baron  cross-examined  me; 
I  did  not  like  the  expression  of  his  eyes  when 
he,  as  it  were,  stuck  them  like  pins  into  me. 
.  .  .  There  was  something  in  them  rapacious, 
209  o 


DREAM   TALES 

patronising  .  .  .  something  unnerving.  Those 
eyes  I  had  not  seen  in  the  dream.  A  strange 
face  was  the  baron's  !  Faded,  fatigued,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  young-looking — unpleasantly 
young-looking  !  My  *  dream-father '  had  not 
the  deep  scar  either  which  ran  slanting  right 
across  my  new  acquaintance's  forehead,  and 
which  I  had  not  noticed  till  I  came  closer  to 
him. 

I  had  hardly  told  the  baron  the  name  of  the 
street,  and  the  number  of  the  house  in  which 
we  were  living,  when  a  tall  negro,  swathed  up 
to  the  eyebrows  in  a  cloak,  came  up  to  him 
from  behind,  and  softly  tapped  him  on  the 
shoulder.  The  baron  turned  round,  ejaculated, 
'  Aha !  at  last  I '  and  with  a  slight  nod  to  me, 
went  with  the  negro  into  the  caf^.  I  was  left 
under  the  awning;  I  meant  to  await  the  baron's 
return,  not  so  much  with  the  object  of  entering 
into  conversation  with  him  again  (I  really  did 
not  know  what  to  talk  about  to  him),  as  to 
verify  once  more  my  first  impression.  But 
half-an-hour  passed,  an  hour  passed.  .  .  .  The 
baron  did  not  appear.  I  went  into  the  caf6, 
passed  through  all  the  rooms,  but  could  see 
nowhere  the  baron  or  the  negro.  .  .  .  They 
must  both  have  gone  out  by  a  back-door. 

My  head  ached  a  little,  and  to  get  a  little 
fresh  air,  I  walked  along  the  seafront  to  a  large 

2IO 


THE   DREAM 

park  outside  the  town,  which  had  been  laid  out 
two  hundred  years  ago. 

After  stroUing  for  a  couple  of  hours  in  the 
shade  of  the  immense  oaks  and  plane-trees,  I 
returned  home. 


VII 


Our  maid-servant  rushed  all  excitement,  to 
meet  me,  directly  I  appeared  in  the  hall ;  I 
guessed  at  once  from  the  expression  of  her  face, 
that  during  my  absence  something  had  gone 
wrong  in  our  house.  And,  in  fact,  I  learnt  that 
an  hour  before,  a  fearful  shriek  had  suddenly  been 
heard  in  my  mother's  bedroom,  the  maid  run- 
ning in  had  found  her  on  the  floor  in  a  fainting 
fit,  which  had  lasted  several  moments.  My 
mother  had  at  last  regained  consciousness,  but 
had  been  obliged  to  lie  down,  and  looked 
strange  and  scared  ;  she  had  not  uttered  a  word, 
had  not  answered  inquiries,  she  had  done 
nothing  but  look  about  her  and  shudder.  The 
maid  had  sent  the  gardener  for  a  doctor.  The 
doctor  came  and  prescribed  soothing  treatment; 
but  my  mother  would  say  nothing  even  to  him. 
The  gardener  maintained  that,  a  few  instants 
after   the    shriek   was   heard   in    my  mother's 


DREAM  TALES 

room,  he  had  seen  a  man,  unknown  to  him, 
running  through  the  bushes  in  the  garden  to 
the  gate  into  the  street.  (We  lived  in  a  house 
of  one  story,  with  windows  opening  on  to  a 
rather  large  garden.)  The  gardener  had  not 
time  to  get  a  look  at  the  man's  face ;  but  he 
was  tall,  and  was  wearing  a  low  straw  hat  and 
long  coat  with  full  skirts  .  .  .  'The  baron's 
costume ! '  at  once  crossed  my  mind.  The 
gardener  could  not  overtake  him  ;  besides,  he 
had  been  immediately  called  into  the  house  and 
sent  for  the  doctor.  I  went  in  to  my  mother  ; 
she  was  lying  on  the  bed,  whiter  than  the 
pillow  on  which  her  head  was  resting.  Recog- 
nising me,  she  smiled  faintly,  and  held  out  her 
hand  to  me.  I  sat  down  beside  her,  and  began 
to  question  her ;  at  first  she  said  no  to  every- 
thing ;  at  last  she  admitted,  however,  that  she 
had  seen  something  which  had  greatly  terrified 
her.  '  Did  some  one  come  in  here  ? '  I  asked. 
'  No,'  she  hurriedly  replied — '  no  one  came  in, 
it  was  my  fancy  ...  an  apparition  .  .  .'  She 
ceased  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  I  was 
on  the  point  of  telling  her,  what  I  had  learnt 
from  the  gardener,  and  incidentally  describing 
my  meeting  with  the  baron  .  .  .  but  for  some 
reason  or  other,  the  words  died  away  on  my  lips. 
I  ventured,  however,  to  observe  to  my  mother, 
that  apparitions  do  not  usually  appear  in  the 


THE   DREAM 

daytime.  .  .  .  '  Stop,'  she  whispered,  *  please  ; 
do  not  torture  me  now.  You  will  know  some 
time.  .  .  .'  She  was  silent  again.  Her  hands 
were  cold  and  her  pulse  beat  fast  and  unevenly. 
I  gave  her  some  medicine  and  moved  a  little 
away  so  as  not  to  disturb  her.  She  did  not  get 
up  the  whole  day.  She  lay  perfectly  still  and 
quiet,  and  now  and  then  heaving  a  deep  sigh, 
and  timorously  opening  her  eyes.  Every  one  in 
the  house  was  at  a  loss  what  to  think. 


VIII 

Towards  night  my  mother  became  a  little 
feverish,  and  she  sent  me  away.  I  did  not, 
however,  go  to  my  own  room,  but  lay  down  in 
the  next  room  on  the  sofa.  Every  quarter  of 
an  hour  I  got  up,  went  on  tiptoe  to  the  door, 
listened.  .  .  .  Everything  was  still — but  my 
mother  hardly  slept  that  night.  When  I  went 
in  to  her  early  in  the  morning,  her  face  looked 
hollow,  her  eyes  shone  with  an  unnatural 
brightness.  In  the  course  of  the  day  she  got  a 
little  better,  but  towards  evening  the  feverish- 
ness  increased  again.  Up  till  then  she  had 
been  obstinately  silent,  but  all  of  a  sudden  she 
began  talking  in  a  hurried  broken  voice.  She 
213 


DREAM  TALES 

was  not  wandering,  there  was  a  meaning  in  her 
words — but  no  sort  of  connection.  Just  upon 
midnight,  she  suddenly,  with  a  convulsive 
movement  raised  herself  in  bed — I  was  sitting 
beside  her — and  in  the  same  hurried  voice,  con- 
tinually taking  sips  of  water,  from  a  glass 
beside  her,  feebly  gesticulating  with  her  hands, 
and  never  once  looking  at  me,  she  began  to  tell 
her  story.  .  .  .  She  would  stop,  make  an  effort 
to  control  herself  and  go  on  again.  ...  It  was 
all  so  strange,  just  as  though  she  were  doing  it 
all  in  a  dream,  as  though  she  herself  were 
absent,  and  some  one  else  were  speaking  by  her 
lips,  or  forcing  her  to  speak. 


IX 

'Listen  to  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you,' 
she  began.  '  You  are  not  a  little  boy  now  ;  you 
ought  to  know  all.  I  had  a  friend,  a  girl  .  .  . 
She  married  a  man  she  loved  with  all  her  heart, 
and  she  was  very  happy  with  her  husband. 
During  the  first  year  of  their  married  life  they 
went  together  to  the  capital  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  there  and  enjoy  themselves.  They 
stayed  at  a  good  hotel,  and  went  out  a  great 
deal  to  theatres  and  parties.  My  friend  was 
214 


THE  DREAM 

very  pretty— every  one  noticed  her,  young  men 
paid  her  attentions, — but  there  was  among 
them  one  ...  an  officer.  He  followed  her 
about  incessantly,  and  wherever  she  was,  she 
always  saw  his  cruel  black  eyes.  He  was  not 
introduced  to  her,  and  never  once  spoke  to  her 
— only  perpetually  stared  at  her — so  insolently 
and  strangely.  All  the  pleasures  of  the  capital 
were  poisoned  by  his  presence.  She  began  per- 
suading her  husband  to  hasten  their  departure — 
and  they  had  already  made  all  the  preparations 
for  the  journey.  One  evening  her  husband 
went  out  to  a  club — he  had  been  invited  by  the 
officers  of  the  same  regiment  as  that  officer — to 
play  cards.  .  .  .  She  was  for  the  very  first  time 
left  alone.  Her  husband  did  not  return  for  a 
long  while.  She  dismissed  her  maid,  and 
went  to  bed.  .  .  .  And  suddenly  she  felt  over- 
come by  terror,  so  that  she  was  quite  cold  and 
shivering.  She  fancied  she  heard  a  slight  sound 
on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  like  a  dog 
scratching,  and  she  began  watching  the  wall. 
In  the  corner  a  lamp  was  burning ;  the  room 
was  all  hung  with  tapestry.  .  .  .  Suddenly 
something  stirred  there,  rose,  opened.  .  .  .  And 
straight  out  of  the  wall  a  black,  long  figure 
came,  that  awful  man  with  the  cruel  eyes !  She 
tried  to  scream,  but  could  not.  She  was 
utterly  numb  with  terror.  He  went  up  to  her 
215 


DREAM  TALES 

rapidly,  like  some  beast  of  prey,  flung  something 
on  her  head,  something  strong-smelling,  heavy, 
white  .  .  .  What  happened  then  I  don't  re- 
member ...  I  don't  remember !  It  was  like 
death,  like  a  murder  ,  .  .  When  at  last  that 
fearful  darkness  began  to  pass  away — when  I 
.  .  .  when  my  friend  came  to  herself,  there  was 
no  one  in  the  room.  Again,  and  for  a  long 
time,  she  had  not  the  strength  to  scream,  she 
screamed  at  last  .  .  .  then  again  everything 
was  confusion.  .  .  .  Then  she  saw  her  husband 
by  her  side :  he  had  been  kept  at  the  club  till 
two  o'clock  at  night  .  .  .  He  looked  scared  and 
white.  He  began  questioning  her,  but  she  told 
him  nothing.  .  .  .  Then  she  swooned  away 
again.  I  remember  though  when  she  was  left 
alone  in  the  room,  she  examined  the  place  in 
the  wall.  .  .  .  Under  the  tapestry  hangings  it 
turned  out  there  was  a  secret  door.  And  her 
betrothal  ring  had  gone  from  off  her  hand. 
This  ring  was  of  an  unusual  pattern  ;  seven 
little  gold  stars  alternated  on  it  with  seven  silver 
stars ;  it  was  an  old  family  heirloom.  Her 
husband  asked  her  what  had  become  of  the 
ring ;  she  could  give  him  no  answer.  Her 
husband  supposed  she  had  dropped  it  some- 
where, searched  everywhere,  but  could  not  find 
it.  He  felt  uneasy  and  distressed ;  he  decided 
to  go  home  as  soon  as  possible  and  directly 
216 


THE  DREAM 

the  doctor  allowed  it — they  left  the  capital.  .  .  . 
But  imagine !  On  the  very  day  of  their 
departure  they  happened  suddenly  to  meet  a 
stretcher  being  carried  along  the  street.  .  .  .  On 
the  stretcher  lay  a  man  who  had  just  been 
killed,  with  his  head  cut  open ;  and  imagine ! 
the  man  was  that  fearful  apparition  of  the 
night  with  the  evil  eyes.  .  .  .  He  had  been 
killed  over  some  gambling  dispute  ! 

Then  my  friend  went  away  into  the  country 
.  .  .  became  a  mother  for  the  first  time  .  .  . 
and  lived  several  years  with  her  husband.  He 
never  knew  anything ;  indeed,  what  could  she 
have  told  him  ? — she  knew  nothing  herself. 

But  her  former  happiness  had  vanished.  A 
gloom  had  come  over  their  lives,  and  never 
again  did  that  gloom  pass  out  of  it.  .  .  .  They 
had  no  other  children,  either  before  or  after 
.  .  .  and  that  son  .  .  .' 

My  mother  trembled  all  over  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands. 

'  But  say  now,'  she  went  on  with  redoubled 
energy,  '  was  my  friend  to  blame  in  any  way  ? 
What  had  she  to  reproach  herself  with  ?  She 
was  punished,  but  had  she  not  the  right  to 
declare  before  God  Himself  that  the  punish- 
ment that  overtook  her  was  unjust?  Then  why 
is  it,  that  like  a  criminal,  tortured  by  stings  of 
conscience,  why  is  it  she  is  confronted  with  the 
217 


DREAM   TALES 

past  in  such  a  fearful  shape  after  so  many 
years  ?  Macbeth  slew  Bancho — so  no  wonder 
that  he  could  be  haunted  .  .  .  but  I  .  .  .' 

But  here  my  mother's  words  became  so  mixed 
and  confused,  that  I  ceased  to  follow  her.  ...  I 
no  longer  doubted  that  she  was  in  delirium. 


The  agitating  effect  of  my  mother's  recital  on 
me — any  one  may  easily  conceive !  I  guessed 
from  her  first  word  that  she  was  talking  of  her- 
self, and  not  any  friend  of  hers.  Her  slip  of  the 
tongue  confirmed  my  conjecture.  Then  this 
really  was  my  father,  whom  I  was  seeking  in 
my  dream,  whom  I  had  seen  awake  by  day- 
light !  He  had  not  been  killed,  as  my  mother 
supposed,  but  only  wounded.  And  he  had 
come  to  see  her,  and  had  run  away,  alarmed  by 
her  alarm.  I  suddenly  understood  everything  : 
the  feeling  of  involuntary  aversion  for  me,  which 
arose  at  times  in  my  mother,  and  her  perpetual 
melancholy,  and  our  secluded  life.  ...  I  re- 
member my  head  seemed  going  round,  and  I 
clutched  it  in  both  hands  as  though  to  hold  it 
still.  But  one  idea,  as  it  were,  nailed  me  down  ; 
I  resolved  I  must,  come  what  may,  find  that 
218 


THE  DREAM 

man  again?  What  for?  with  what  aim?  I 
could  not  give  myself  a  clear  answer,  but  to 
find  him  .  .  .  find  him — that  had  become  a 
question  of  life  and  death  for  me !  The  next 
morning  my  mother,  at  last,  grew  calmer  .  .  . 
the  fever  left  her  .  .  .  she  fell  asleep.  Confid- 
ing her  to  the  care  of  the  servants  and  people 
of  the  house,  I  set  out  on  my  quest 


XI 

First  of  all  I  made  my  way,  of  course,  to  the 
caf6  where  I  had  met  the  baron  ;  but  no  one  in 
the  caf6  knew  him  or  had  even  noticed  him  ;  he 
had  been  a  chance  customer  there.  The  negro 
the  people  there  had  observed,  his  figure  was  so 
striking ;  but  who  he  was,  and  where  he  was 
staying,  no  one  knew.  Leaving  my  address 
in  any  case  at  the  caf<6,  I  fell  to  wandering 
about  the  streets  and  sea  front  by  the  harbour, 
along  the  boulevards,  peeped  into  all  places  of 
public  resort,  but  could  find  no  one  like  the 
baron  or  his  companion !  .  .  .  Not  having 
caught  the  baron's  surname,  I  was  deprived  of 
the  resource  of  applying  to  the  police  ;  I  did, 
however,  privately  let  two  or  three  guardians  of 
the  public  safety  know — they  stared  at  me  ia 
219 


DREAM   TALES 

bewilderment,  and  did  not  altogether  believe  in 
me — that  I  would  reward  them  liberally  if  they 
could  trace  out  two  persons,  whose  exterior  I 
tried  to  describe  as  exactly  as  possible.  After 
wandering  about  in  this  way  till  dinner-time, 
I  returned  home  exhausted.  My  mother  had 
got  up  ;  but  to  her  usual  melancholy  there  was 
added  something  new,  a  sort  of  dreamy  blank- 
ness,  which  cut  me  to  the  heart  like  a  knife.  I 
spent  the  evening  with  her.  We  scarcely  spoke 
at  all ;  she  played  patience,  I  looked  at  her 
cards  in  silence.  She  never  made  a  single 
reference  to  what  she  had  told  me,  nor  to  what 
had  happened  the  preceding  evening.  It  was 
as  though  we  had  made  a  secret  compact  not 
to  touch  on  any  of  these  harrowing  and  strange 
incidents.  .  .  .  She  seemed  angry  with  herself, 
and  ashamed  of  what  had  broken  from  her 
unawares  ;  though  possibly  she  did  not  remem- 
ber quite  what  she  had  said  in  her  half  deli- 
rious feverishness,  and  hoped  I  should  spare  her. 
.  .  .  And  indeed  this  was  it,  I  spared  her,  and 
she  felt  it ;  as  on  the  previous  day  she  avoided 
my  eyes.  I  could  not  get  to  sleep  all  night. 
Outside,  a  fearful  storm  suddenly  came  on. 
The  wind  howled  and  darted  furiously  hither 
and  thither,  the  window-panes  rattled  and  rang, 
despairing  shrieks  and  groans  sounded  in  the 
air,  as  though  something  had  been  torn  to 
220 


THE   DREAM 

shreds  up  aloft,  and  were  flying  with  frenzied 
wailing  over  the  shaken  houses.  Before  dawn 
I  dropped  off  into  a  doze  .  .  .  suddenly  I 
fancied  some  one  came  into  my  room,  and 
called  me,  uttered  my  name,  in  a  voice  not 
loud,  but  resolute.  I  raised  my  head  and  saw 
no  one ;  but,  strange  to  say !  I  was  not  only 
not  afraid — I  was  glad  ;  I  suddenly  felt  a  con- 
viction that  now  I  should  certainly  attain  my 
object.  I  dressed  hurriedly  and  went  out  of  the 
house. 


XII 

The  storm  had  abated  . .  .  but  its  last  struggles 
could  still  be  felt.  It  was  very  early,  there 
were  no  people  in  the  streets,  many  places  were 
strewn  with  broken  chimney-pots  and  tiles, 
pieces  of  wrecked  fencing,  and  branches  of 
trees.  ...  *  What  was  it  like  last  night  at  sea?' 
I  could  not  help  wondering  at  the  sight  of  the 
traces  left  by  the  storm.  I  intended  to  go  to 
the  harbour,  but  my  legs,  as  though  in  obedience 
to  some  irresistible  attraction,  carried  me  in 
another  direction.  Ten  minutes  had  not  gone 
by  before  I  found  myself  in  a  part  of  the  town 
I   had  never  visited  till  then.      I   walked  not 

221 


DREAM   TALES 

rapidly,  but  without  halting,  step  by  step,  with 
a  strange  sensation  at  my  heart ;  I  expected 
something  extraordinary,  impossible,  and  at  the 
same  time  I  was  convinced  that  this  extra- 
ordinary thing  would  come  to  pass. 


XIII 

And,  behold,  it  came  to  pass,  this  extraordinary, 
this  unexpected  thing  !  Suddenly,  twenty 
paces  before  me,  I  saw  the  very  negro  who 
had  addressed  the  baron  in  the  caf(6 !  Muffled 
in  the  same  cloak  as  I  had  noticed  on  him 
there,  he  seemed  to  spring  out  of  the  earth,  and 
with  his  back  turned  to  me,  walked  with  rapid 
strides  along  the  narrow  pavement  of  the  wind- 
ing street.  I  promptly  flew  to  overtake  him, 
but  he,  too,  redoubled  his  pace,  though  he  did 
not  look  round,  and  all  of  a  sudden  turned 
sharply  round  the  corner  of  a  projecting  house. 
I  ran  up  to  this  comer,  turned  round  it  as 
quickly  as  the  negro  .  .  .  Wonderful  to  relate ! 
I  faced  a  long,  narrow,  perfectly  empty  street ; 
the  fog  of  early  morning  filled  it  with  its  leaden 
dulness,  but  my  eye  reached  to  its  very  end,  J 
could  scan  all  the  buildings  in  it  .  .  .  and  not  a 
living  creature  stirring   anywhere  !      The  tall 

222 


THE   DREAM 

negro  in  the  cloak  had  vanished  as  suddenly  as 
he  had  appeared !  I  was  bewildered  .  .  .  but 
only  for  one  instant.  Another  feeling  at  once 
took  possession  of  me ;  the  street,  which  stretched 
its  length,  dumb,  and,  as  it  were,  dead,  before 
my  eyes,  I  knew  it !  It  was  the  street  of  my 
dream.  I  started,  shivered,  the  morning  was  so 
fresh,  and  promptly,  without  the  least  hesitation, 
with  a  sort  of  shudder  of  conviction,  went  on  ! 

I  began  looking  about.  .  .  .  Yes,  here  it  was  ; 
here  to  the  right,  standing  cornerwise  to  the 
street,  was  the  house  of  my  dream,  here  too  the 
old-fashioned  gateway  with  scrollwork  in  stone 
on  both  sides.  ...  It  is  true  the  windows  of 
the  house  were  not  round,  but  rectangular  .  .  . 
but  that  was  not  important.  ...  I  knocked  at 
the  gate,  knocked  twice  or  three  times,  louder 
and  louder.  .  .  .  The  gate  was  opened  slowly 
with  a  heavy  groan  as  though  yawning.  I  was 
confronted  by  a  young  servant  girl  with  dis- 
hevelled hair,  and  sleepy  eyes.  She  was  appar- 
ently only  just  awake.  '  Does  the  baron  live 
here  ?  '  I  asked,  and  took  in  with  a  rapid  glance 
the  deep  narrow  courtyard.  .  .  .  Yes ;  it  was 
all  there  .  .  .  there  were  the  planks  and  beams 
I  had  seen  in  my  dream. 

'  No,'  the  servant  girl  answered,  *  the  baron 's 
not  living  here.' 

'  Not  ?  impossible  ! ' 

223 


DREAM  TALES 

*  He 's  not  here  now.     He  left  yesterday.* 
'  Where 's  he  gone  ? ' 

'  To  America.' 

'  To  America  ! '  I  repeated  involuntarily. 
'  But  he  will  come  back  ? ' 

The  servant  looked  at  me  suspiciously. 

'We  don't  know  about  that.  May  be  he 
won't  come  back  at  all.' 

'  And  has  he  been  living  here  long  ? ' 

'  Not  long,  a  week.     He's  not  here  now.' 

'  And  what  was  his  surname,  the  baron's  ? ' 
The  girl  stared  at  me. 

'You  don't  know  his  name?  We  simply 
called  him  the  baron. — Hi !  Piotr ! '  she 
shouted,  seeing  I  was  pushing  in.  *  Come 
here ;  here 's  a  stranger  keeps  asking  ques- 
tions.' 

From  the  house  came  the  clumsy  figure  of  a 
sturdy  workman. 

*  What  is  it  ?  What  do  you  want  ? '  he  asked 
in  a  sleepy  voice ;  and  having  heard  me  sullenly, 
he  repeated  what  the  girl  had  told  me. 

'  But  who  does  live  here  ? '  I  asked. 
'  Our  master.' 
'Who  is  he?' 

'  A  carpenter.  They  *re  all  carpenters  in  this 
street' 

'  Can  I  see  him  ?  * 

*  You  can't  now,  he 's  asleep.* 

224 


THE  DREAM 

'  But  can't  I  go  into  the  house  ? ' 

*  No,     Go  away.' 

*  Well,  but  can  I  see  your  master  later  on  ? ' 

'  What  for  ?  Of  course.  You  can  always 
see  him.  .  .  .  To  be  sure,  he's  always  at  his 
business  here.  Only  go  away  now.  Such  a 
time  in  the  morning,  upon  my  soul ! ' 

*  Well,  but  that  negro  ? '  I  asked  suddenly. 
The  workman  looked  in  perplexity  first  at 

me,  then  at  the  servant  girl. 

'  What  negro  ? '  he  said  at  last.  *  Go  away, 
sir.  You  can  come  later.  You  can  talk  to  the 
master.' 

I  went  out  into  the  street.  The  gate  slammed 
at  once  behind  me,  sharply  and  heavily,  with  no 
groan  this  time. 

I  carefully  noted  the  street  and  the  house, 
and  went  away,  but  not  home — I  was  conscious 
of  a  sort  of  disillusionment.  Everything  that 
had  happened  to  me  was  so  strange,  so  unex- 
pected, and  meanwhile  what  a  stupid  conclu- 
sion to  it !  I  had  been  persuaded,  I  had  been 
convinced,  that  I  should  see  in  that  house  the 
room  I  knew,  and  in  the  middle  of  it  my  father, 
the  baron,  in  the  dressing-gown,  and  with  a 
pipe.  .  .  .  And  instead  of  that,  the  master  of 
the  house  was  a  carpenter,  and  I  could  go  and 
see  him  as  much  as  I  liked — and  order  furniture 
of  him,  I  dare  say. 

22S  p 


DREAM  TALES 

My  father  had  gone  to  America.  And  what 
was  left  for  me  to  do  ?  .  .  .  To  tell  my  mother 
everything,  or  to  bury  for  ever  the  very  memory 
of  that  meeting  ?  I  positively  could  not  resign 
myself  to  the  idea  that  such  a  supernatural, 
mysterious  beginning  should  end  in  such  a 
senseless,  ordinary  conclusion ! 

I  did  not  want  to  return  home,  and  walked 
at  random  away  from  the  town. 


XIV 


I  WALKED  with  downcast  head,  without  thought, 
almost  without  sensation,  but  utterly  buried  in 
myself.  A  rhythmic  hollow  and  angry  noise 
raised  me  from  my  numbness.  I  lifted  my 
head  ;  it  was  the  sea  roaring  and  moaning  fifty 
paces  from  me.  I  saw  I  was  walking  along  the 
sand  of  the  dunes.  The  sea,  set  in  violent 
commotion  by  the  storm  in  the  night,  was  white 
with  foam  to  the  very  horizon,  and  the  sharp 
crests  of  the  long  billows  rolled  one  after 
another  and  broke  on  the  flat  shore.  I  went 
nearer  to  it,  and  walked  along  the  line  left  by 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  tides  on  the  yellow 
furrowed  sand,  strewn  with  fragments  of  trailing 
226 


THE   DREAM 

seaweed,  broken  shells,  and  snakelike  ribbons 
of  sea-grass.  Gulls,  with  pointed  wings,  flying 
with  a  plaintive  cry  on  the  wind  out  of  the 
remote  depths  of  the  air,  soared  up,  white  as 
snow  against  the  grey  cloudy  sky,  fell  abruptly, 
and  seeming  to  leap  from  wave  to  wave,  vanished 
again,  and  were  lost  like  gleams  of  silver  in  the 
streaks  of  frothing  foam.  Several  of  them,  I 
noticed,  hovered  persistently  over  a  big  rock, 
which  stood  up  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  level 
uniformity  of  the  sandy  shore.  Coarse  seaweed 
was  growing  in  irregular  masses  on  one  side  of 
the  rock ;  and  where  its  matted  tangles  rose 
above  the  yellow  line,  was  something  black, 
something  longish,  curved,  not  very  large.  .  .  . 
I  looked  attentively.  .  .  .  Some  dark  object 
was  lying  there,  lying  motionless  beside  the 
rock.  .  .  .  This  object  grew  clearer,  more  defined 
the  nearer  I  got  to  it.  .  .  . 

There  was  only  a  distance  of  thirty  paces 
left  between  me  and  the  rock.  .  .  .  Why,  it  was 
the  outline  of  a  human  form  !  It  was  a  corpse ; 
it  was  a  drowned  man  thrown  up  by  the  sea ! 
I  went  right  up  to  the  rock. 

The  corpse  was  the  baron,  my  father!  I 
stood  as  though  turned  to  stone.  Only  then  I 
realised  that  I  had  been  led  since  early  morning 
by  some  unknown  forces,  that  I  was  in  their 
power,  and  for  some  instants  there  was  nothing 
227 


DREAM  TALES 

in  my  soul  but  the  never-ceasing  crash  of  the 
sea,  and  dumb  horror  at  the  fate  that  had 
possession  of  me.  .  .  . 


3CV 

He  lay  on  his  back,  turned  a  little  to  one  side, 
with  his  left  arm  behind  his  head  .  .  .  the  right 
was  thrust  under  his  bent  body.  The  toes  of 
his  feet,  in  high  sailor's  boots,  had  been  sucked 
into  the  slimy  sea-mud  ;  the  short  blue  jacket, 
drenched  through  with  brine,  was  still  closely 
buttoned  ;  a  red  scarf  was  fastened  in  a  tight 
knot  about  his  neck.  The  dark  face,  turned  to 
the  sky,  looked  as  if  it  were  laughing ,  the 
small  close-set  teeth  could  be  seen  under  the 
lifted  upper  lip ;  the  dim  pupils  of  the  half- 
closed  eyes  were  scarcely  discernible  in  the 
darkened  eyeballs ;  the  clotted  hair,  covered 
with  bubbles  of  foam,  lay  dishevelled  on  the 
ground,  and  bared  the  smooth  brow  with  the 
purple  line  of  the  scar ;  the  narrow  nose  rose, 
a  sharp  white  line,  between  the  sunken  cheeks. 
The  storm  of  the  previous  night  had  done  its 
work.  .  .  .  He  would  never  see  America  again  ! 
The  man  who  had  outraged  my  mother,  who 
had  spoiled  and  soiled  her  life ;  my  father — yes  ! 
228 


THE  DREAM 

my  father — of  that  I  could  feel  no  doubt — lay 
helplessly  outstretched  in  the  mud  at  my  feet.  I 
experienced  a  sensation  of  satisfied  revenge,  and 
of  pity,  and  repulsion,  and  horror,  more  than 
all  ...  a  double  horror,  at  what  I  saw,  and 
at  what  had  happened.  The  wicked  criminal 
feelings  of  which  I  have  spoken,  those  uncom- 
prehended  impulses  of  rage  rose  up  in  me  .  .  . 
choked  me.  'Aha  ! '  I  thought,  'so  that  is  why  I 
am  like  this  .  .  .  that  is  how  my  blood  shows 
itself! '  I  stood  beside  the  corpse,  and  stared  in 
suspense.  Would  not  those  dead  eyes  move, 
would  not  those  stiff  lips  quiver  ?  No !  all  was 
still ;  the  very  seaweed  seemed  lifeless  where 
the  breakers  had  flung  it ;  even  the  gulls  had 
flown ;  not  a  broken  spar  anywhere,  not  a 
fragment  of  wood,  nor  a  bit  of  rigging.  On 
all  sides  emptiness  .  .  .  only  he  and  I,  and  in 
the  distance  the  sounding  sea.  I  looked  back ; 
the  same  emptiness  there :  a  ridge  of  lifeless 
downs  on  the  horizon  .  .  .  that  was  all !  My 
heart  revolted  against  leaving  this  luckless 
wretch  in  this  solitude,  on  the  briny  sand  of  the 
seashore,  to  be  devoured  by  fishes  and  birds  ; 
an  inner  voice  told  me  I  ought  to  find  people, 
call  them,  if  not  to  help — what  help  could 
there  be  now  ! — at  least  to  lift  him  up,  to  carry 
him  into  some  living  habitation  .  .  .  but  an 
indescribable  panic  suddenly  seized  on  me.  It 
229 


DREAM   TALES 

seemed  to  me  that  this  dead  man  knew  I  had 
come  here,  that  he  had  himself  planned  this  last 
meeting.  I  even  fancied  I  heard  the  indistinct 
mutter  I  knew  so  well.  ...  I  ran  away  .  .  . 
looked  back  once.  .  .  .  Something  glittering 
caught  my  eye  ;  it  brought  me  to  a  halt  It 
was  a  hoop  of  gold  on  the  hand  of  the  corpse. 
...  I  knew  it  for  my  mother's  betrothal  ring. 
I  remember  how  I  forced  myself  to  turn  back, 
to  go  up,  to  bend  down  ...  I  remember  the 
clammy  touch  of  the  chill  fingers  ;  I  remember 
how  I  held  my  breath,  and  half-closed  my 
eyes,  and  set  my  teeth,  tearing  off  the  obstinate 
ring  .  .  . 

At  last,  it  was  oiF  .  .  .  and  I  was  running, 
running  away  at  full  speed,  with  something 
flying  behind  me,  upon  my  heels,  overtaking 
rae. 


XVI 

All  I  had  felt  and  gone  through  was  probably 
written  on  my  face  when  I  got  home.  My 
mother  abruptly  drew  herself  up  directly  I  went 
into  her  room,  and  looked  with  such  urgent 
inquiry  at  me,  that,  after  an  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  explain,  I  ended  by  holding  out 
the  ring  to  her  in  silence.  She  turned  fear- 
230 


THE   DREAM 

fully  white,  her  eyes  opened  extraordinarily 
and  looked  dead,  like  those  eyes  ;  she  uttered  a 
faint  cry,  snatched  the  ring,  reeled,  fell  on  my 
breast,  and  fairly  swooned  away,  her  head  fall- 
ing back,  and  her  blank  wide-open  eyes  staring 
at  me.  I  threw  both  my  arms  about  her,  and 
standing  where  I  was,  without  moving,  told  her 
slowly,  in  a  subdued  voice,  everything,  without 
the  slightest  concealment :  my  dream,  and  the 
meeting,  and  everything,  everything.  .  .  ,  She 
heard  me  to  the  end  without  uttering  a  single 
word,  only  her  bosom  heaved  more  and  more 
violently,  and  her  eyes  suddenly  flashed  and 
sank.  Then  she  put  the  ring  on  her  third 
finger,  and,  moving  away  a  little,  began  getting 
her  cape  and  hat.  I  asked  her  where  she  was 
going.  She  lifted  eyes  full  of  surprise  upon 
me,  and  tried  to  answer,  but  her  voice  failed 
her.  She  shuddered  several  times,  rubbed  her 
hands,  as  though  she  were  trying  to  warm 
them,  and  at  last  said,  *  Let  us  go  there  at 
once.' 

'  Where,  mother  ? ' 

'  Where  he  is  lying  ...  I  want  to  see  .  »  .  I 
want  to  know  ...  I  will  know  .  .  . ' 

I  endeavoured  to  persuade  her  not  to  go ; 
but  she  almost  fell  into  a  nervous  attack.  I 
saw  it  was  impossible  to  oppose  her  wish,  and 
we  set  off. 

231 


DREAM   TALES 


XVII 


And  now  I  was  again  walking  along  the  sand  ; 
but  this  time  not  alone.  I  had  my  mother  on 
my  arm.  The  sea  had  ebbed  away,  had  re- 
treated farther  still  ;  it  was  calmer,  but  its  roar, 
though  fainter,  was  still  menacing  and  malig- 
nant. There,  at  last,  rose  the  solitary  rock 
before  us ;  there  was  the  seaweed  too.  1 
looked  intently,  I  tried  to  distinguish  that 
curved  object  lying  on  the  ground — but  I  saw 
nothing.  We  went  closer  ;  instinctively  I 
slackened  my  pace.  But  where  was  the  black 
still  object  ?  Only  the  tangles  of  seaweed  rose 
black  against  the  sand,  which  had  dried  up  by 
now.  We  went  right  up  to  the  rock. .  .  .  There 
was  no  corpse  to  be  seen  ;  and  only  where  it 
had  been  lying  there  was  still  a  hollow  place, 
and  one  could  see  where  the  arms  and  where 
the  legs  had  lain.  .  .  .  The  seaweed  around 
looked  as  it  were  crushed,  and  prints  were 
visible  of  one  man's  feet ;  they  crossed  the  dune, 
then  were  lost,  as  they  reached  the  heaped-up 
shingle. 

My  mother  and  I  looked  at  each  other,  and 
were  frightened  at  what  we  saw  in  each  other's 
faces.  .  .  . 

232 


THE   DREAM 

Surely  he  had  not  got  up  of  himself  and  gone 
away  ? 

'  You  are  sure  you  saw  him  dead  ? '  she  asked 
in  a  whisper. 

I  could  only  nod  in  assent.  Three  hours  had 
not  passed  since  I  had  come  upon  the  baron's 
corpse.  .  .  .  Some  one  had  discovered  and 
removed  it.  I  must  find  out  who  had  done  it, 
and  what  had  become  of  it. 

But  first  I  had  to  look  after  my  mother. 


XVIII 

While  she  had  been  walking  to  the  fata!  spot 
she  had  been  in  a  fever,  but  she  controlled 
herself.  The  disappearance  of  the  dead  body 
came  upon  her  as  a  final  blow.  She  was  struck 
dumb.  I  feared  for  her  reason.  With  great 
difficulty  I  got  her  home.  I  made  her  lie  down 
again  on  her  bed,  again  I  sent  for  the  doctor, 
but  as  soon  as  my  mother  had  recovered  her- 
self a  little,  she  at  one  desired  me  to  set  off 
without  delay  to  find  out  *  that  man.'  I  obeyed. 
But,  in  spite  of  every  possible  effort,  I  discovered 
nothing.  I  went  several  times  to  the  police, 
visited  several  villages  in  the  neighbourhood, 
put  several  advertisements  in  the  papers,  col- 


DREAM   TALES 

iected  information  in  all  directions,  and  all  in 
vain  !  I  received  information,  indeed,  that  the 
corpse  of  a  drowned  man  had  been  picked  up 
in  one  of  the  seaside  villages  near.  ...  I  at 
once  hastened  off  there,  but  from  all  I  could 
hear  the  body  had  no  resemblance  to  the  baron. 
I  found  out  in  what  ship  he  had  set  sail  for 
America ;  at  first  every  one  was  positive  that 
ship  had  gone  down  in  the  storm  ;  but  a  few 
months  later  there  were  rumours  that  it  had 
been  seen  riding  at  anchor  in  New  York  har- 
bour. Not  knowing  what  steps  to  take,  I 
began  seeking  out  the  negro  I  had  seen,  ofifer- 
ing  him  in  the  papers  a  considerable  sum  of 
money  if  he  would  call  at  our  house.  Some 
tall  negro  in  a  cloak  did  actually  call  on  us  in 
my  absence.  .  .  .  But  after  questioning  the 
maid,  he  abruptly  departed,  and  never  came 
back  again. 

So  all  traces  were  lost  of  my  .  .  .  my  father ; 
so  he  vanished  into  silence  and  darkness  never 
to  return.  My  mother  and  I  never  spoke  of 
him  ;  only  one  day,  I  remember,  she  expressed 
surprise  that  I  had  never  told  her  before  of  my 
strange  dream  ;  and  added,  *  It  must  mean  he 
really  .  .  .'  but  did  not  utter  all  her  thought 
My  mother  was  ill  a  long  while,  and  even  after 
her  recovery  our  former  close  relations  never 
returned.  She  was  ill  at  ease  with  me  to  the 
234 


THE  DREAM 

day  of  her  death.  ...  Ill  at  ease  was  just  what 
she  was.  And  that  is  a  trouble  there  is  no 
cure  for.  Anything  may  be  smoothed  over, 
memories  of  even  the  most  tragic  domestic 
incidents  gradually  lose  their  strength  and 
bitterness ;  but  if  once  a  sense  of  being  ill  at 
ease  installs  itself  between  two  closely  united 
persons,  it  can  never  be  dislodged  !  I  never 
again  had  the  dream  that  had  once  so  agitated 
me ;  I  no  longer  '  look  for '  my  father  ;  but 
sometimes  I  fancied — and  even  now  I  fancy — 
that  I  hear,  as  it  were,  distant  wails,  as  it  were, 
never  silent,  mournful  plaints ;  they  seem  to 
sound  somewhere  behind  a  high  wall,  which 
cannot  be  crossed ;  they  wring  my  heart,  and 
I  weep  with  closed  eyes,  and  am  never  able  to 
tell  what  it  is,  whether  it  is  a  living  man 
moaning,  or  whether  I  am  listening  to  the 
wild,  long-drawn-out  howl  of  the  troubled  sea. 
And  then  it  passes  again  into  the  muttering  of 
some  beast,  and  I  fall  asleep  with  anguish  and 
horror  in  my  heart 

1876. 


235 


POEMS    IN   PROSE 


POEMS    IN    PROSE 
I 

[1878] 
THE  COUNTRY 

The  last  day  of  July ;  for  a  thousand  versts 
around,  Russia,  our  native  land. 

An  unbroken  blue  flooding  the  whole  sky ; 
a  single  cloudlet  upon  it,  half  floating,  half 
fading  away.  Windlessness,  warmth  ...  air 
like  new  milk ! 

Larks  are  trilling ;  pouter-pigeons  cooing ; 
noiselessly  the  swallows  dart  to  and  fro  ;  horses 
are  neighing  and  munching ;  the  dogs  do  not 
bark  and  stand  peaceably  wagging  their  tails. 

A  smell  of  smoke  and  of  hay,  and  a  little 
of  tar,  too,  and  a  little  of  hides.  The  hemp, 
now  in  full  bloom,  sheds  its  heavy,  pleasant 
fragrance. 

A  deep  but  sloping  ravine.  Along  its  sides 
willows  in  rows,  with  big  heads  above,  trunks 
239 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

cleft  below.  Through  the  ravine  runs  a  brook  ; 
the  tiny  pebbles  at  its  bottom  are  all  aquiver 
through  its  clear  eddies.  In  the  distance,  on 
the  border-line  between  earth  and  heaven,  the 
bluish  streak  of  a  great  river. 

Along  the  ravine,  on  one  side,  tidy  barns, 
little  storehouses  with  close-shut  doors  ;  on  the 
other  side,  five  or  six  pinewood  huts  with 
boarded  roofs.  Above  each  roof,  the  high  pole 
of  a  pigeon-house;  over  each  entry  a  little 
short -maned  horse  of  wrought  iron.  The 
window-panes  of  faulty  glass  shine  with  all  the 
colours  of  the  rainbow.  Jugs  of  flowers  are 
painted  on  the  shutters.  Before  each  door,  a 
little  bench  stands  prim  and  neat ;  on  the 
mounds  of  earth,  cats  are  basking,  their  trans- 
parent ears  pricked  up  alert ;  beyond  the  high 
door-sills,  is  the  cool  dark  of  the  outer  rooms. 

I  lie  on  the  very  edge  of  the  ravine,  on  an 
outspread  horse-cloth ;  all  about  are  whole  stacks 
of  fresh-cut  hay,  oppressively  fragrant.  The 
sagacious  husbandmen  have  flung  the  hay 
about  before  the  huts;  let  it  get  a  bit  drier 
in  the  baking  sunshine ;  and  then  into  the  barn 
with  it.     It  will  be  first-rate  sleeping  on  it 

Curly,  childish  heads  are  sticking  out  of  every 
haycock ;  crested  hens  are  looking  in  the  hay 
for  flies  and  little  beetles,  and  a  white-lipped 
pup  is  rolling  among  the  tangled  stalks. 
240 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

Flaxen-headed  lads  in  clean  smocks,  belted 
low,  in  heavy  boots,  leaning  over  an  unhar- 
nessed waggon,  fling  each  other  smart  volleys 
of  banter,  with  broad  grins  showing  their  white 
teeth. 

A  round-faced  young  woman  peeps  out  of 
window  ;  laughs  at  their  words  or  at  the  romps 
of  the  children  in  the  mounds  of  hay. 

Another  young  woman  with  powerful  arms 
draws  a  great  wet  bucket  out  of  the  well.  .  .  . 
The  bucket  quivers  and  shakes,  spilling  long, 
glistening  drops. 

Before  me  stands  an  old  woman  in  a  new 
striped  petticoat  and  new  shoes. 

Fat  hollow  beads  are  wound  in  three  rows 
about  her  dark  thin  neck,  her  grey  head  is 
tied  up  in  a  yellow  kerchief  with  red  spots  ;  it 
hangs  low  over  her  failing  eyes. 

But  there  is  a  smile  of  welcome  in  the  aged 
eyes  ;  a  smile  all  over  the  wrinkled  face.  The 
old  woman  has  reached,  I  dare  say,  her  seventieth 
year  .  .  .  and  even  now  one  can  see  she  has 
been  a  beauty  in  her  day. 

With  a  twirl  of  her  sunburnt  finger,  she  holds 
in  her  right  hand  a  bowl  of  cold  milk,  with  the 
cream  on  it,  fresh  from  the  cellar ;  the  sides  of 
the  bowl  are  covered  with  drops,  like  strings  of 
pearls.  In  the  palm  of  her  left  hand  the  old 
woman  brings  me  a  huge  hunch  of  warm  bread, 
241  Q 


POEMS  IN    PROSE 

as  though  to  say,  '  Eat,  and  welcome,  passing 
guest ! ' 

A  cock  suddenly  crows  and  fussily  flaps  his 
wings ;  he  is  slowly  answered  by  the  low  of  a 
calf,  shut  up  in  the  stall. 

'  My  word,  what  oats ! '  I  hear  my  coachman 
saying.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  content,  the  quiet,  the 
plenty  of  the  Russian  open  country !  Oh,  the 
deep  peace  and  well-being ! 

And  the  thought  comes  to  me :  what  is  it  all 
to  us  here,  the  cross  on  the  cupola  of  St.  Sophia 
in  Constantinople  and  all  the  rest  that  we  are 
struggling  for,  we  men  of  the  town  ? 


A  CONVERSATION 

'  Neither  the  Jungfrau  nor  the  Finsteraarhom  has  yet  been 
trodden  by  the  foot  of  man ! ' 

The  topmost  peaks  of  the  Alps.  ...  A  whole 
chain  of  rugged  precipices.  .  .  .  The  very  heart 
of  the  mountains. 

Over  the  mountain,  a  pale  green,  clear,  dumb 
sky.  Bitter,  cruel  frost ;  hard,  sparkling  snow  ; 
sticking  out  of  the  snow,  the  sullen  peaks  of 
the  ice-covered,  wind-swept  mountains. 

Two  massive  forms,  two  giants  on  the  sides 
242 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

of  the  horizon,  the  Jungfrau  and  the  Finster- 
aarhorn. 

And  the  Jungfrau  speaks  to  its  neighbour: 

*  What  canst  thou  tell  that  is  new  ?  thou  canst 
see  more.     What  is  there  down  below  ? ' 

A  few  thousand  years  go  by :  one  minute. 
And  the  Finsteraarhorn  roars  back  in  answer : 

*  Thick  clouds  cover  the  earth.    .   .  .   Wait  a 
little!' 

Thousands  more  years  go  by :  one  minute. 

*  Well,  and  now  ? '  asks  the  Jungfrau. 

*  Now  I  see,  there  below  all  is  the  came. 
There  are  blue  waters,  black  forests,  grey  heaps 
of  piled-up  stones.  Among  them  are  still 
fussing  to  and  fro  the  insects,  thou  knowest, 
the  bipeds  that  have  never  yet  once  defiled 
thee  nor  me.' 

'Men?' 

*  Yes,  men.' 

Thousands  of  years  go  by  :  one  minute. 

*  Well,  and  now  ? '  asks  the  Jungfrau. 

*  There  seem  fewer  insects  to  be  seen,'  thunders 
the  Finsteraarhorn,  *  it  is  clearer  down  below ; 
the  waters  have  shrunk,  the  forests  are  thinner.' 
Again  thousands  of  years  go  by :  one  minute. 

'  What  seeest  thou  ? '  says  the  Jungfrau. 

'  Close  about  us  it  seems  purer,'  answers  the 
Finsteraarhorn, '  but  there  in  the  distance  in  the 
valleys  are  still  spots,  and  something  is  moving.' 
243 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

*  And  now?'  asks  the  Jungfrau,  after  more 
thousands  of  years :  one  minute. 

*  Now  it  is  well,'  answers  the  Finsteraarhorn, 
*it  is  clean  everywhere,  quite  white,  wherever 
you  look.  .  .  .  Everywhere  is  our  snow,  unbroken 
snow  and  ice.  Everything  is  frozen.  It  is  well 
now,  it  is  quiet.' 

*  Good,'  said  the  Jungfrau.  '  But  we  have 
gossipped  enough,  old  fellow.  It's  time  to 
slumber.' 

'  It  is  time,  indeed.* 

The  huge  mountains  sleep  ;  the  green,  clear 
sky  sleeps  over  the  region  of  eternal  silence. 

February  1878. 


THE  OLD  WOMAN 

I  WAS  walking  over  a  wide  plain  alone. 

And  suddenly  I  fancied  light,  cautious  foot- 
steps behind  my  back.  .  .  .  Some  one  was 
walking  after  me. 

I  looked  round,  and  saw  a  little,  bent  old 
woman,  all  muffled  up  in  grey  rags.  The  face 
of  the  old  woman  alone  peeped  out  from  them  ; 
a  yellow,  wrinkled,  sharp-nosed,  toothless  face. 

I  went  up  to  her.  .  .  .  She  stopped. 
244 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

'  Who  are  you  ?  What  do  you  want  ?  Are 
you  a  beggar  ?     Do  you  seek  alms  ? ' 

The  old  woman  did  not  answer.  I  bent 
down  to  her,  and  noticed  that  both  her  eyes 
were  covered  with  a  half-transparent  membrane 
or  skin,  such  as  is  seen  in  some  birds ;  they 
protect  their  eyes  with  it  from  dazzling  light. 

But  in  the  old  woman,  the  membrane  did 
not  move  nor  uncover  the  eyes  .  .  .  from  which 
I  concluded  she  was  blind. 

*  Do  you  want  alms  ? '  I  repeated  my  question. 
'Why  are  you  following  me?'  But  the  old 
woman  as  before  made  no  answer,  but  only 
shrank  into  herself  a  little. 

I  turned  from  her  and  went  on  my  way. 

And  again  I  hear  behind  me  the  same  light, 
measured,  as  it  were,  stealthy  steps. 

'  Again  that  woman  ! '  I  thought,  *  why  does 
she  stick  to  me  ? '  But  then,  I  added  inwardly, 
'  Most  likely  she  has  lost  her  way,  being  blind, 
and  now  is  following  the  sound  of  my  steps  so 
as  to  get  with  me  to  some  inhabited  place. 
Yes,  yes,  that 's  it' 

But  a  strange  uneasiness  gradually  gained 
possession  of  my  mind.  I  began  to  fancy  that 
the  old  woman  was  not  only  following  me,  but 
that  she  was  directing  me,  that  she  was  driving 
me  to  right  and  to  left,  and  that  I  was  unwit- 
tingly obeying  her. 

245 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

I  still  go  on,  however  .  .  .  but,  behold,  before 
me,  on  my  very  road,  something  black  and 
wide  ...  a  kind  of  hole. ,  .  .  '  A  grave  ! '  flashed 
through  my  head.  '  That  is  where  she  is  driv- 
ing me ! ' 

I  turned  sharply  back.  The  old  woman 
faced  me  again  .  .  .  but  she  sees !  She  is 
looking  at  me  with  big,  cruel,  malignant  eyes 
.  .  .  the  eyes  of  a  bird  of  prey.  ...  I  stoop 
down  to  her  face,  to  her  eyes.  .  .  .  Again  the 
same  opaque  membrane,  the  same  blind,  dull 
countenance.  .  .  . 

*  Ah  I '  I  think,  '  this  old  woman  is  my  fate. 
The  fate  from  which  there  is  no  escape  for  man ! ' 

'  No  escape !  no  escape !  What  madness.  .  . . 
One  must  try.'  And  I  rush  away  in  another 
direction. 

I  go  swiftly. . . .  But  light  footsteps  as  before 
patter  behind  me,  close,  close.  .  .  .  And  before 
me  again  the  dark  hole. 

Again  I  turn  another  way.  .  .  .  And  again 
the  same  patter  behind,  and  the  same  menacing 
blur  of  darkness  before. 

And  whichever  way  I  run,  doubling  like  a 
hunted  hare  .  .  .  it's  always  the  same,  the 
same ! 

'  Wait ! '  I  think, '  I  will  cheat  her !  I  will  go 
nowhere  I '  and  I  instantly  sat  down  on  the 
ground. 

346 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

The  old  woman  stands  behind,  tti^o  paces  from 
me.     I  do  not  hear  her,  but  I  feel  she  is  there. 

And  suddenly  I  see  the  blur  of  darkness  in 
the  distance  is  floating,  creeping  of  itself  to- 
wards me ! 

God !  I  look  round  again  ,  .  .  the  old 
woman  looks  straight  at  me,  and  her  toothless 
mouth  is  twisted  in  a  grin. 

No  escape ! 


THE  DOG 

Us  two  in  the  room  ;   my  dog  and  me.   .   .  . 
Outside  a  fearful  storm  is  howling. 

The  dog  sits  in  front  of  me,  and  looks  me 
straight  in  the  face. 

And  I,  too,  look  into  his  face. 

He  wants,  it  seems,  to  tell  me  something. 
He  is  dumb,  he  is  without  words,  he  does  not 
understand  himself — but  I  understand  him. 

I  understand  that  at  this  instant  there  is 
living  in  him  and  in  me  the  same  feeling,  that 
there  is  no  difference  between  us.  We  are  the 
same  ;  in  each  of  us  there  burns  and  shines  the 
same  trembling  spark. 

Death  sweeps  down,  with  a  wave  of  its  chill 
broad  wing.  .  .  . 

And  the  end ! 

247 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

Who  then  can  discern  what  was  the  spark 
that  glowed  in  each  of  us  ? 

No  !  We  are  not  beast  and  man  that  glance 
at  one  another.  .  .  . 

They  are  the  eyes  of  equals,  those  eyes 
riveted  on  one  another. 

And  in  each  of  these,  in  the  beast  and  in  the 
man,  the  same  life  huddles  up  in  fear  close  to 
the  other. 

February  1878. 


MY  ADVERSARY 

I  HAD  a  comrade  who  was  my  adversary ;  not 
in  pursuits,  nor  in  service,  nor  in  love,  but  our 
views  were  never  alike  on  any  subject,  and 
whenever  we  met,  endless  argument  arose 
between  us. 

We  argued  about  everything :  about  art,  and 
religion,  and  science,  about  life  on  earth  and 
beyond  the  grave,  especially  about  life  beyond 
the  grave. 

He  was  a  person  of  faith  and  enthusiasm. 
One  day  he  said  to  me,  *  You  laugh  at  every- 
thing ;  but  if  I  die  before  you,  I  will  come  to 
you  from  the  other  world.  .  .  .  We  shall  see 
whether  you  will  laugh  then.' 
248 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

And  he  did,  in  fact,  die  before  me,  while  he 
was  still  young ;  but  the  years  went  by,  and  I 
had  forgotten  his  promise,  his  threat. 

One  night  I  was  lying  in  bed,  and  could  not, 
and,  indeed,  would  not  sleep. 

In  the  room  it  was  neither  dark  nor  light 
I  fell  to  staring  into  the  grey  twilight. 

And  all  at  once,  I  fancied  that  between  the 
two  windows  my  adversary  was  standing,  and 
was  slowly  and  mournfully  nodding  his  head 
up  and  down. 

I  was  not  frightened;  I  was  not  even  sur- 
prised .  .  .  but  raising  myself  a  little,  and 
propping  myself  on  my  elbow,  I  stared  still 
more  intently  at  the  unexpected  apparition. 

The  latter  continued  to  nod  his  head. 

*  Well  ? '  I  said  at  last ;  *  are  you  triumphant 
or  regretful?  What  is  this — warning  or  re- 
proach? ...  Or  do  you  mean  to  give  me  to 
understand  that  you  were  wrong,  that  we  were 
both  wrong?  What  are  you  experiencing? 
The  torments  of  hell  ?  Or  the  bliss  of  paradise  ? 
Utter  one  word  at  least ! ' 

But  my  opponent  did  not  utter  a  single 
sound,  and  only,  as  before,  mournfully  and 
submissively  nodded  his  head  up  and  down. 

I  laughed  ...  he  vanished. 

February  1878. 

249 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 


THE  BEGGAR 


I  WAS  walking  along  the  street  ...  I  was 
stopped  by  a  decrepit  old  beggar. 

Bloodshot,  tearful  eyes,  blue  lips,  coarse  rags, 
festering  wounds.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  hideously 
poverty  had  eaten  into  this  miserable  creature ! 

He  held  out  to  me  a  red,  swollen,  filthy  hand. 
He  groaned,  he  mumbled  of  help. 

I  began  feeling  in  all  my  pockets.  .  .  .  No 
purse,  no  watch,  not  even  a  handkerchief.  .  .  . 
I  had  taken  nothing  with  me.  And  the  beggar 
was  still  waiting  .  .  .  and  his  outstretched  hand 
feebly  shook  and  trembled. 

Confused,  abashed,  I  warmly  clasped  the 
filthy,  shaking  hand  .  .  .  '  Don't  be  angry, 
brother  ;  I  have  nothing,  brother.' 

The  beggar  stared  at  me  with  his  bloodshot 
eyes ;  his  blue  lips  smiled ;  and  he  in  his  turn 
gripped  my  chilly  fingers. 

'  What  of  it,  brother  ? '  he  mumbled  ;  *  thanks 
for  this,  too.     That  is  a  gift  too,  brother.' 

I  knew  that  I  too  had  received  a  gift  from 
my  brother. 

February  1878. 

250 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 


*THOU   SHALT  HEAR  THE  FOOL'S  JUDG- 
MENT    .     .     :— PUSHKIN 

'Thou  shalt  hear  the  fool's  judgment.  .  .  / 
You  always  told  the  truth,  O  great  singer  of 
ours.  You  spoke  it  this  time,  too. 
!  '  The  fool's  judgment  and  the  laughter  of  the 
crowd '  .  . .  who  has  not  known  the  one  and  the 
pther  ? 

All  that  one  can,  and  one  ought  to  bear; 
and  who  has  the  strength,  let  him  despise  it ! 

But  there  are  blows  which  pierce  more  cruelly 
to  the  very  heart  ...  A  man  has  done  all  that 
he  could ;  has  worked  strenuously,  lovingly, 
honestly. .  .  .  And  honest  hearts  turn  from  him 
in  disgust ;  honest  faces  burn  with  indignation 
at  his  name.  *  Be  gone !  Away  with  you  ! ' 
honest  young  voices  scream  at  him.  '  We  have 
no  need  of  you,  nor  of  your  work.  You  pollute 
our  dwelling-places.  You  know  us  not  and 
understand  us  not  .  .  .  You  are  our  enemy ! ' 

What  is  that  man  to  do  ?  Go  on  working ; 
not  try  to  justify  himself,  and  not  even  look 
forward  to  a  fairer  judgment. 

At  one  time  the  tillers  of  the  soil  cursed  the 
traveller  who  brought  the  potato,  the  substitute 
for  bread,  the  poor  man's  daily  food.  .  .  .  They 
251 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

shook  the  precious  gift  out  of  his  outstretched 
hands,  flung  it  in  the  mud,  trampled  it  under- 
foot. 

Now  they  are  fed  with  it,  and  do  not  even 
know  their  benefactor's  name. 

So  be  it !  What  is  his  name  to  them  ?  He, 
nameless  though  he  be,  saves  them  from 
hunger. 

Let  us  try  only  that  what  we  bring  should  be 
really  good  food. 

Bitter,  unjust  reproach  on  the  lips  of  those 
you  love.  .  .  .  But  that,  too,  can  be  borne.  .  .  . 

'  Beat  me !  but  listen  ! '  said  the  Athenian 
leader  to  the  Spartan. 

*  Beat  me !  but  be  healthy  and  fed ! '  we 
ought  to  say. 

February  1878. 


A  CONTENTED   MAN 

A  YOUNG  man  goes  skipping  and  bounding 
along  a  street  in  the  capital.  His  movements 
are  gay  and  alert ;  there  is  a  sparkle  in  his 
eyes,  a  smirk  on  his  lips,  a  pleasing  flush  on 
his  beaming  face.  .  .  .  He  is  all  contentment 
and  delight. 

What  has  happened  to  him  ?     Has  he  come 
252 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

in  for  a  legacy  ?  Has  he  been  promoted  ?  Is 
he  hastening  to  meet  his  beloved?  Or  is  it 
simply  he  has  had  a  good  breakfast,  and  the 
sense  of  health,  the  sense  of  well-fed  prosperity, 
is  at  work  in  all  his  limbs  ?  Surely  they  have 
not  put  on  his  neck  thy  lovely,  eight-pointed 
cross,  O  Polish  king,  Stanislas  ? 

No.  He  has  hatched  a  scandal  against  a 
friend,  has  sedulously  sown  it  abroad,  has  heard 
it,  this  same  slander,  from  the  lips  of  another 
friend,  and — has  himself  believed  it ! 

Oh,  how  contented  1  how  kind  indeed  at  this 
minute  is  this  amiable,  promising  young  man ! 

February  1878. 


A  RULE  OF  LIFE 

*  If  you  want  to  annoy  an  opponent  thoroughly, 
and  even  to  harm  him,'  said  a  crafty  old  knave 
to  me,  *  you  reproach  him  with  the  very  defect 
or  vice  you  are  conscious  of  in  yourself.  Be 
indignant  .  .  .  and  reproach  him ! 

'To  begin  with,  it  will  set  others  thinking 
you  have  not  that  vice. 

'  In  the  second  place,  your  indignation  may 
well  be  sincere  .  .  .   You  can  turn  to  account 
the  pricks  of  your  own  conscience. 
253 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

If  you,  for  instance,  are  a  turncoat,  reproach 
your  opponent  with  having  no  convictions  ! 

*  If  you  are  yourself  slavish  at  heart,  tell  him 
reproachfully  that  he  is  slavish  .  .  .  the  slave  of 
civilisation,  of  Europe,  of  Socialism  ! ' 

'One  might  even  say,  the  slave  of  anti- 
slavishness,'  I  suggested. 

*You  might  even  do  that,'  assented  the 
cunning  knave. 

Februaty  1878. 


THE  END  OF  THE  WORLD 

A  DREAM 

I  FANCIED  I  was  somewhere  in  Russia,  in  the 
wilds,  in  a  simple  country  house. 

The  room  big  and  low  pitched  with  three 
windows  ;  the  walls  whitewashed  ;  no  furniture. 
Before  the  house  a  barren  plain ;  gradually 
sloping  downwards,  it  stretches  into  the  dis- 
tance ;  a  grey  monotonous  sky  hangs  over  it, 
like  the  canopy  of  a  bed. 

I  am  not  alone ;  there  are  some  ten  persons 

in  the  room  with  me.     All  quite  plain  people, 

simply  dressed.      They  walk  up  and  down  in 

silence,  as  it  were  stealthily.     They  avoid  one 

254 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

another,  and  yet  are  continually  looking 
anxiously  at  one  another. 

Not  one  knows  why  he  has  come  into  this 
house  and  what  people  there  are  with  him.  On 
all  the  faces  uneasiness  and  despondency  .  .  . 
all  in  turn  approach  the  windows  and  look 
about  intently  as  though  expecting  something 
from  without 

Then  again  they  fall  to  wandering  up  and 
down.  Among  us  is  a  small-sized  boy;  from 
time  to  time  he  whimpers  in  the  same  thin 
voice,  '  Father,  I  'm  frightened ! '  My  heart 
turns  sick  at  his  whimper,  and  I  too  begin  to 
be  afraid  ...  of  what?  I  don't  know  myself. 
Only  I  feel,  there  is  coming  nearer  and  nearer 
a  great,  great  calamity. 

The  boy  keeps  on  and  on  with  his  wail.  Oh, 
to  escape  from  here!  How  stifling!  How 
weary !  how  heavy.  .  .  .  But  escape  is  im- 
possible. 

That  sky  is  like  a  shroud.  And  no  wind.  ,  .  , 
Is  the  air  dead  or  what  ? 

All  at  once  the  boy  runs  up  to  the  window 
and  shrieks  in  the  same  piteous  voice,  *  Look  ! 
look !  the  earth  has  fallen  away !  * 

'  How  ?  fallen  away  ?  '     Yes  ;  just  now  there 

was  a  plain  before  the  house,  and  now  it  stands 

on  a  fearful  height !    The  horizon  has  sunk,  has 

gone  down,  and  from  the  very  house  drops  an 

255 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

almost   overhanging,   as   it   were   scooped-out, 
black  precipice. 

We  all  crowded  to  the  window.  .  .  .  Horror 
froze  our  hearts.  '  Here  it  is  .  .  .  here  it  is ! ' 
whispers  one  next  me. 

And  behold,  along  the  whole  far  boundary  of 
the  earth,  something  began  to  stir,  some  sort 
of  small,  roundish  hillocks  began  heaving  and 
falling. 

*  It  is  the  sea ! '  the  thought  flashed  on  us  all 
at  the  same  instant.  *  It  will  swallow  us  all  up 
directly.  .  .  .  Only  how  can  it  grow  and  rise 
upwards  ?     To  this  precipice  ? ' 

And  yet,  it  grows,  grows  enormously.  .  .  . 
Already  there  are  not  separate  hillocks  heaving 
in  the  distance.  .  .  .  One  continuous,  monstrous 
wave  embraces  the  whole  circle  of  the  horizon. 

It  is  swooping,  swooping,  down  upon  us !  In 
an  icy  hurricane  it  flies,  swirling  in  the  darkness 
of  hell.  Everything  shuddered — and  there,  in 
this  flying  mass — was  the  crash  of  thunder,  the 
iron  wail  of  thousands  of  throats.  .  .  . 

Ah !  what  a  roaring  and  moaning !  It  was 
the  earth  howling  for  terror.  .  .  . 

The  end  of  it !  the  end  of  all ! 

The  child  whimpered  once  more.  ...  I  tried 
to  clutch  at  my  companions,  but  already  we 
were  all  crushed,  buried,  drowned,  swept  away 
by  that  pitch-black,  icy,  thundering  wave ! 
2i;6 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

Darkness  .  .  .  darkness  everlasting ! 
Scarcely  breathing,  I  awoke. 

March  1878. 


MASHA 

When  I  lived,  many  years  ago,  in  Petersburg, 
every  time  I  chanced  to  hire  a  sledge,  I  used  to 
get  into  conversation  with  the  driver. 

I  was  particularly  fond  of  talking  to  the  night 
drivers,  poor  peasants  from  the  country  round, 
who  come  to  the  capital  with  their  little  ochre- 
painted  sledges  and  wretched  nags,  in  the  hope 
of  earning  food  for  themselves  and  rent  for  their 
masters. 

So  one  day  I  engaged  such  a  sledge-driver. 
.  .  .  He  was  a  lad  of  twenty,  tall  and  well-made, 
a  splendid  fellow  with  blue  eyes  and  ruddy 
cheeks ;  his  fair  hair  curled  in  little  ringlets 
under  the  shabby  little  patched  cap  that  was 
pulled  over  his  eyes.  And  how  had  that  little 
torn  smock  ever  been  drawn  over  those  gigantic 
shoulders ! 

But  the  handsome,  beardless  face  of  the 
sledge-driver  looked  mournful  and  downcast 

I  began  to  talk  to  him.  There  was  a  sorrow- 
ful note  in  his  voice  too. 

257  R 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

'  What  is  it,  brother  ?  *  I  asked  him  ;  *  why 
aren't  you  cheerful  ?    Have  you  some  trouble  ? ' 

The  lad  did  not  answer  me  for  a  minute. 
*  Yes,  sir,  I  have,*  he  said  at  last.  *  And  such  a 
trouble,  there  could  not  be  a  worse.  My  wife  is 
dead.' 

•  You  loved  her  .  .  .  your  wife  ? ' 

The  lad  did  not  turn  to  me ;  he  only  bent 
his  head  a  little. 

'  I  loved  her,  sir.  It 's  eight  months  since  then 
.  .  .  but  I  can't  forget  it.  My  heart  is  gnawing 
at  me  .  .  .  so  it  is !  And  why  had  she  to  die  ? 
A  young  thing !  strong  ! . . .  In  one  day  cholera 
snatched  her  away.' 

'  And  was  she  good  to  you  ?  * 

*Ah,  sir!'  the  poor  fellow  sighed  heavily, 
'  and  how  happy  we  were  together !  She  died 
without  me!  The  first  I  heard  here,  they'd 
buried  her  already,  you  know ;  I  hurried  off  at 
once  to  the  village,  home — I  got  there — it  was 
past  midnight.  I  went  into  my  hut,  stood 
still  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  softly  I 
whispered,  "  Masha !  eh,  Masha  ! "  Nothing 
but  the  cricket  chirping.  I  fell  a-crying  then, 
sat  on  the  hut  floor,  and  beat  on  the  earth  with 
my  fists !  "  Greedy  earth  ! "  says  I  .  .  .  "  You 
have  swallowed  her  up  ,  .  .  swallow  me  too  i — 
Ah,  Masha ! " 

'  Masha ! '  he  added  suddenly  in  a  sinking 
2S8 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

voice.  And  without  letting  go  of  the  cord  reins, 
he  wiped  the  tears  out  of  his  eyes  with  his 
sleeve,  shook  it,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
uttered  not  another  word. 

As  I  got  out  of  the  sledge,  I  gave  him  a  few 
coppers  over  his  fare.  He  bowed  low  to  me, 
grasping  his  cap  in  both  hands,  and  drove  off  at 
a  walking  pace  over  the  level  snow  of  the  de- 
serted street,  full  of  the  grey  fog  of  a  January 
frost. 

April  187& 


THE  FOOL 

There  lived  a  fool. 

For  a  long  time  he  lived  in  peace  and  con- 
tentment ;  but  by  degrees  rumours  began  to 
reach  him  that  he  was  regarded  on  all  sides  as 
a  vulgar  idiot. 

The  fool  was  abashed  and  began  to  ponder 
gloomily  how  he  might  put  an  end  to  these  un- 
pleasant rumours. 

A  sudden  idea,  at  last,  illuminated  his  dull 
little  brain  .  . .  And,  without  the  slightest  delay, 
he  put  it  into  practice. 

A  friend  met  him  in  the  street,  and  fell  to 
praising  a  well-known  painter.  .  .  . 
259 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

*  Upon  my  word  ! '  cried  the  fool,  *  that  painter 
was  out  of  date  long  ago  .  .  .  you  didn't  know 
it  ?  I  should  never  have  expected  it  of  you  .  .  . 
you  are  quite  behind  the  times.' 

The  friend  was  alarmed,  and  promptly  agreed 
with  the  fool. 

'Such  a  splendid  book  I  read  yesterday!* 
said  another  friend  to  him. 

'  Upon  my  word  ! '  cried  the  fool,  '  I  wonder 
you're  not  ashamed.  That  book's  good  for 
nothing  ;  every  one 's  seen  through  it  long  ago. 
\  Didn't  you  know  it  ?  You  're  quite  behind  the 
\  times.' 

\       This  friend  too  was  alarmed,  and  he  agreed 
1  with  the  fool. 

I  'What  a  wonderful  fellow  my  friend  N.  N. 
lis ! '  said  a  third  friend  to  the  fool.  *  Now 
there 's  a  really  generous  creature ! ' 

*  Upon  my  word  ! '  cried  the  fool.  '  N.  N.,  the 
"notorious  scoundrel !  He  swindled  all  his  re- 
lations. Every  one  knows  that  You  're  quite 
behind  the  times.' 

The  .third  friend  too  was  alarmed,  and  he 
agreed  with  the  fool  and  deserted  his  friend. 
And  whoever  and  whatever  was  praised  in  the 
fool's  presence,  he  had  the  same  retort  for  every- 
thing. 

Sometimes     he    would    add    reproachfully: 
*  And  do  you  still  believe  in  authorities  ? ' 
260 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

'  Spiteful !  malignant ! '  his  friends  began  to 
say  of  the  fool.     '  But  what  a  brain  ! ' 

*  And  what  a  tongue ! '  others  would  add, 
*  Oh,  yes,  he  has  talent ! ' 

It  ended  in  the  editor  of  a  journal  proposing 
to  the  fool  that  he  should  undertake  their  re- 
viewing column. 

And  the  fool  fell  to  criticising  everything  and 
every  one,  without  in  the  least  changing  his 
manner,  or  his  exclamations. 

Now  he,  who  once  declaimed  against  authori- 
ties, is  himself  an  authority,  and  the  young  men 
venerate  him,  and  fear  him. 

And  what  else  can  they  do,  poor  young  men  ? 
Though  one  ought  not,  as  a  general  rule,  to 
venerate  any  one  .  .  .  but  in  this  case,  if  one 
didn't  venerate  him,  one  would  find  oneself 
quite  behind  the  times  ! 

Fools  have  a  good  time  among  cowards. 

April  lS^^. 


AN  EASTERN  LEGEND 

Who  in  Bagdad  knows  not  Jaffar,  the  Sun  of 
the  Universe? 

One  day,  many  years  ago  (he  was  yet  a  youth), 
Jafifar  was  walking  in  the  environs  of  Bagdad, 
261 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

Suddenly  a  hoarse  cry  reached  his  ear ;  some 
one  was  calling  desperately  for  help. 

Jaffar  was  distinguished  among  the  young 
men  of  his  age  by  prudence  and  sagacity ;  but 
his  heart  was  compassionate,  and  he  relied  on 
his  strength. 

He  ran  at  the  cry,  and  saw  an  infirm  old  man, 
pinned  to  the  city  wall  by  two  brigands,  who 
were  robbing  him. 

Jaffar  drew  his  sabre  and  fell  upon  the  mis- 
creants :  one  he  killed,  the  other  he  drove 
away. 

The  old  man  thus  liberated  fell  at  his  de- 
liverer's feet,  and,  kissing  the  hem  of  his  gar- 
ment, cried  :  *  Valiant  youth,  your  magnanimity 
shall  not  remain  unrewarded.  In  appearance  I 
am  a  poor  beggar  ;  but  only  in  appearance.  I 
am  not  a  common  man.  Come  to-morrow  in 
the  early  morning  to  the  chief  bazaar ;  I  will 
await  you  at  the  fountain,  and  you  shall  be  con- 
vinced of  the  truth  of  my  words.' 

Jaffar  thought :  *  In  appearance  this  man  is  a 
beggar,  certainly  ;  but  all  sorts  of  things  happen. 
Why  not  put  it  to  the  test  ? '  and  he  answered : 
'  Very  well,  good  father  ;  I  will  come.' 

The  old  man  looked  into  his  face,  and  went 
away. 

The  next  morning,  the  sun  had  hardly  risen, 
Jaffar  went  to  the  bazaar.  The  old  man  was 
262 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

already  awaiting  him,  leaning  with  his  elbow  on 
the  marble  basin  of  the  fountain. 

In  silence  he  took  Jaffar  by  the  hand  and  led 
him  into  a  small  garden,  enclosed  on  all  sides 
by  high  walls. 

In  the  very  middle  of  this  garden,  on  a  green 
lawn,  grew  an  extraordinary-looking  tree. 

It  was  like  a  cypress ;  only  its  leaves  were  of 
an  azure  hue. 

Three  fruits  —  three  apples — hung  on  the 
slender  upward-bent  twigs ;  one  was  of  middle 
size,  long-shaped,  and  milk-white ;  the  second, 
large,  round,  bright -red;  the  third,  small, 
wrinkled,  yellowish. 

The  whole  tree  faintly  rustled,  though  there 
was  no  wind.  It  emitted  a  shrill  plaintive  ring- 
ing sound,  as  of  a  glass  bell ;  it  seemed  it  was 
conscious  of  Jaffar's  approach. 

'  Youth ! '  said  the  old  man,  *  pick  any  one  of 
these  apples  and  know,  if  you  pick  and  eat  the 
white  one,  you  will  be  the  wisest  of  all  men  ;  if 
you  pick  and  eat  the  red,  you  will  be  rich  as 
the  Jew  Rothschild  ;  if  you  pick  and  eat  the 
yellow  one,  you  will  be  liked  by  old  women. 
Make  up  your  mind !  and  do  not  delay. 
Within  an  hour  the  apples  will  wither,  and 
the  tree  itself  will  sink  into  the  dumb  depths 
of  the  earth  ! ' 

Jaffar  looked  down,  and  pondered.  '  How 
263 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

am  I  to  act  ? '  he  said  in  an  undertone,  as  though 
arguing  with  himself.  *  If  you  become  too  wise, 
maybe  you  will  not  care  to  live  ;  if  you  be- 
come richer  than  any  one,  every  one  will  envy 
you  ;  I  had  better  pick  and  eat  the  third,  the 
withered  apple  ! ' 

And  so  he  did ;  and  the  old  man  laughed  a 
toothless  laugh,  and  said  :  '  O  wise  young  man  ! 
You  have  chosen  the  better  part !  What  need 
have  you  of  the  white  apple  ?  You  are  wiser 
than  Solomon  as  it  is.  And  you  've  no  need  of 
the  red  apple  either.  .  .  .  You  will  be  rich 
without  it.     Only  your  wealth  no  one  will  envy.' 

'  Tell  me,  old  man,'  said  Jaffar,  rousing  him- 
self, 'where  lives  the  honoured  mother  of  our 
Caliph,  protected  of  heaven  ? ' 

The  old  man  bowed  down  to  the  earth,  and 
pointed  out  to  the  young  man  the  way. 

Who  in  Bagdad  knows  not  the  Sun  of  the 
Universe,  the  great,  the  renowned  Jaffar  ? 

April  1878. 


TWO  STANZAS 

There  was  once  a  town,  the  inhabitants  of 

which  were  so  passionately  fond  of  poetry,  that 

if  some  weeks  passed  by  without  the  appearance 

264 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

of  any  good  new  poems,  they  regarded  such  a 
poetic  dearth  as  a  public  misfortune. 

They  used  at  such  times  to  put  on  their 
worst  clothes,  to  sprinkle  ashes  on  their  heads  ; 
and,  assembling  in  crowds  in  the  public  squares, 
to  shed  tears  and  bitterly  to  upbraid  the  muse 
who  had  deserted  them. 

On  one  such  inauspicious  day,  the  young 
poet  Junius  came  into  a  square,  thronged  with 
the  grieving  populace. 

With  rapid  steps  he  ascended  a  forum  con- 
structed for  this  purpose,  and  made  signs  that 
he  wished  to  recite  a  poem. 

The  lictors  at  once  brandished  their  fasces. 
'  Silence !  attention  ! '  they  shouted  loudly,  and 
the  crowd  was  hushed  in  expectation. 

'  Friends  !  Comrades  ! '  began  Junius,  in  a 
loud  but  not  quite  steady  voice : — 

'  Friends  !  Comrades  !  Lovers  of  the  Muse  1 
Ye  worshippers  of  beauty  and  of  grace  ! 
Let  not  a  moment's  gloom  dismay  your  souls, 
Your  heart's  desire  is  nigh,  and  light  shall  banish  darkness.' 

Junius  ceased  .  .  .  and  in  answer  to  him,  from 
every  part  of  the  square,  rose  a  hubbub  of  hiss- 
ing and  laughter. 

Every  face,  turned  to  him,  glowed  with  indig- 
nation, every  eye   sparkled  with   anger,  every 
arm  was  raised  and  shook  a  menacing  fist ! 
265 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

*  He  thought  to  dazzle  us  with  that ! '  growled 
angry  voices,  *  Down  with  the  imbecile  rhyme- 
ster from  the  forum!  Away  with  the  idiot! 
Rotten  apples,  stinking  eggs  for  the  motley 
fool !     Give  us  stones — stones  here  ! ' 

Junius  rushed  head  over  heels  from  the  forum 
.  .  .  but,  before  he  had  got  home,  he  was  over- 
taken by  the  sound  of  peals  of  enthusiastic 
applause,  cries  and  shouts  of  admiration. 

Filled  with  amazement,  Junius  returned  to 
the  square,  trying  however  to  avoid  being 
noticed  (for  it  is  dangerous  to  irritate  an  in- 
furiated beast). 

And  what  did  he  behold  ? 

High  above  the  people,  upon  their  shoulders, 
on  a  flat  golden  shield,  wrapped  in  a  purple 
chlamys,  with  a  laurel  wreath  on  his  flowing 
locks,  stood  his  rival,  the  young  poet  Julius. 
.  .  .  And  the  populace  all  round  him  shouted : 
*  Glory !  Glory !  Glory  to  the  immortal  Julius ! 
He  has  comforted  us  in  our  sorrow,  in  our  great 
woe!  He  has  bestowed  on  us  verses  sweeter 
than  honey,  more  musical  than  the  cymbal's 
note,  more  fragrant  than  the  rose,  purer  than 
the  azure  of  heaven !  Carry  him  in  triumph, 
encircle  his  inspired  head  with  the  soft  breath 
of  incense,  cool  his  brow  with  the  rhythmic 
movement  of  palm-leaves,  scatter  at  his  feet  all 
the  fragrance  of  the  myrrh  of  Arabia  I  Glory !' 
266 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

Junius  went  up  to  one  of  the  applauding 
enthusiasts.  '  Enlighten  me,  O  my  fellow- 
citizen  !  what  were  the  verses  with  which  Julius 
has  made  you  happy?  I,  alas  !  was  not  in  the 
square  when  he  uttered  them !  Repeat  them, 
if  you  remember  them,  pray  ! ' 

'  Verses  like  those  I  could  hardly  forget ! ' 
the  man  addressed  responded  with  spirit. 
'What  do  you  take  me  for?  Listen — and 
rejoice,  rejoice  with  us  ! ' 

'  Lovers  of  the  Muse ! '  so  the  deified  Julius 
had  begun.  .  .  . 

'  Lovers  of  the  Muse  !  Comrades  !  Friends 
Of  beauty,  grace,  and  music,  worshippers  ! 
Let  not  your  hearts  by  gloom  affrighted  be  ! 
The  wished-for  moment  comes  !  and  day  shall  scatter  night !' 

'  What  do  you  think  of  them  ? ' 

*  Heavens  ! '  cried  Junius  ;  '  but  that 's  my 
poem !  Julius  must  have  been  in  the  crowd 
when  I  was  reciting  them  ;  he  heard  them  and 
repeated  them,  slightly  varying,  and  certainly 
not  improving,  a  few  expressions.' 

*Aha!  Now  I  recognise  you.  .  .  .  You  are 
Junius,'  the  citizen  he  had  stopped  retorted  with 
a  scowl  on  his  face.  '  Envious  man  or  fool ! 
.  .  .  note  only,  luckless  wretch,  how  sub- 
limely Julius  has  phrased  it :  "  And  day  shall 
scatter  night ! "  While  you  had  some  such 
267 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

rubbish  :  "  And  light  shall  banish  darkness  ! " 
What  light  ?     What  darkness  ? ' 

*  But  isn't  that  just  the  same  ? '  Junius  was 
beginning.  .  .  . 

'  Say  another  word,'  the  citizen  cut  him  short, 
*  I  will  call  upon  the  people  .  .  .  they  will  tear 
you  to  pieces  ! ' 

Junius  judiciously  held  his  peace,  but  a  grey- 
headed old  man  who  had  heard  the  conversa- 
tion went  up  to  the  unlucky  poet,  and  laying  a 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  said  : 

*  Junius !  You  uttered  your  own  thought,  but 
not  at  the  right  moment ;  and  he  uttered  not 
his  own  thought,  but  at  the  right  moment. 
Consequently,  he  is  all  right ;  while  for  you  is 
left  the  consolations  of  a  good  conscience.' 

But  while  his  conscience,  to  the  best  of  its 
powers — not  over  successfully,  to  tell  the  truth 
— was  consoling  Junius  as  he  was  shoved  on 
one  side — in  the  distance,  amid  shouts  of 
applause  and  rejoicing,  in  the  golden  radiance 
of  the  all-conquering  sun,  resplendent  in  purple, 
with  his  brow  shaded  with  laurel,  among  un- 
dulating clouds  of  lavish  incense,  with  majestic 
deliberation,  like  a  tsar  making  a  triumphal 
entry  into  his  kingdom,  moved  the  proudly  erect 
figure  of  Julius  .  .  .  and  the  long  branches  of 
palm  rose  and  fell  before  him,  as  though  ex- 
pressing in  their  soft  vibration,  in  their  sub- 
268 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

missive  obeisance,  the  ever-renewed  adoration 
which  filled  the  hearts  of  his  enchanted  fellow- 
citizens  ! 

April  1878. 


THE  SPARROW 

I  WAS  returning  from  hunting,  and  walking 
along  an  avenue  of  the  garden,  my  dog 
running  in  front  of  me. 

Suddenly  he  took  shorter  steps,  and  began  to 
steal  along  as  though  tracking  game. 

I  looked  along  the  avenue,  and  saw  a  young 
sparrow,  with  yellow  about  its  beak  and  down 
on  its  head.  It  had  fallen  out  of  the  nest  (the 
wind  was  violently  shaking  the  birch-trees  in 
the  avenue)  and  sat  unable  to  move,  helplessly 
flapping  its  half-grown  wings. 

My  dog  was  slowly  approaching  it,  when, 
suddenly  darting  down  from  a  tree  close  by,  an 
old  dark-throated  sparrow  fell  like  a  stone  right 
before  his  nose,  and  all  ruffled  up,  terrified,  with 
despairing  and  pitiful  cheeps,  it  flung  itself 
twice  towards  the  open  jaws  of  shining  teeth. 

It  sprang  to  save  ;  it  cast  itself  before  its  nest- 
ling .  .  .  but  all  its  tiny  body  was  shaking  with 
terror  ;  its  note  was  harsh  and  strange.     Swoon- 
ing with  fear,  it  offered  itself  up ! 
269 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

What  a  huge  monster  must  the  dog  have 
seemed  to  it !  And  yet  it  could  not  stay  on  its 
high  branch  out  of  danger.  ...  A  force  stronger 
than  its  will  flung  it  down. 

My  Tr^sor  stood  still,  drew  back.  .  .  . 
Clearly  he  too  recognised  this  force. 

I  hastened  to  call  off  the  disconcerted  dog, 
and  went  away,  full  of  reverence. 

Yes  ;  do  not  laugh.  I  felt  reverence  for  that 
tiny  heroic  bird,  for  its  impulse  of  love. 

Love,  I  thought,  is  stronger  than  death  or 
the  fear  of  death.  Only  by  it,  by  love,  life 
holds  together  and  advances. 

April  1878. 


THE  SKULLS 

A  SUMPTUOUS,  brilliantly  lighted  hall;  a 
number  of  ladies  and  gentlemen. 

All  the  faces  are  animated,  the  talk  is  lively. 
...  A  noisy  conversation  is  being  carried  on 
about  a  famous  singer.  They  call  her  divine, 
immortal.  .  .  .  O,  how  finely  yesterday  she 
rendered  her  last  trill ! 

And  suddenly — as  by  the  wave  of  an  en- 
chanter's wand — from  every  head  and  from 
every  face,  slipped  off  the  delicate  covering  of 
270 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

skin,  and  instantaneously  exposed  the  deadly 
whiteness  of  skulls,  with  here  and  there  the 
leaden  shimmer  of  bare  jaws  and  gums. 

With  horror  I  beheld  the  movements  of  those 
jaws  and  gums ;  the  turning,  the  glistening  in 
the  light  of  the  lamps  and  candles,  of  those 
lumpy  bony  balls,  and  the  rolling  in  them  of 
other  smaller  balls,  the  balls  of  the  meaning- 
less eyes. 

I  dared  not  touch  my  own  face,  dared  not 
glance  at  myself  in  the  glass. 

And  the  skulls  turned  from  side  to  side  as 
before.  .  .  .  And  with  their  former  noise,  peep- 
ing like  little  red  rags  out  of  the  grinning  teeth, 
rapid  tongues  lisped  how  marvellously,  how 
inimitably  the  immortal  .  .  .  yes,  immortal  .  .  . 
singer  had  rendered  that  last  trill  1 

April  1878. 


THE  WORKMAN  AND  THE  MAN  WITH 
WHITE  HANDS 

A   DIALOGUE 

Workman.  Why  do  you  come  crawling  up 
to  us  ?  What  do  ye  want  ?  You  're  none  of  us. 
.  .  .  Get  along ! 

271 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

Man  with  white  hands.  I  am  one  of 
you,  comrades ! 

The  WORKMAN.  One  of  us,  indeed!  That's 
a  notion !  Look  at  my  hands.  D'  ye  see  how 
dirty  they  are  ?  And  they  smell  of  muck,  and 
of  pitch — but  yours,  see,  are  white.  And  what 
do  they  smell  of? 

The  man  with  white  hands  {offering 
his  hands).  Smell  them. 

The  WORKMAN  {sniffing  his  hands).  That 's 
a  queer  start.     Seems  like  a  smell  of  iron. 

The  man  with  white  hands.  Yes ;  iron 
it  is.  For  six  long  years  I  wore  chains  on 
them. 

The  workman.  And  what  was  that  for, 
pray? 

The  man  with  white  hands.  Why,  be- 
cause I  worked  for  your  good ;  tried  to  set  free 
the  oppressed  and  the  ignorant ;  stirred  folks 
up  against  your  oppressors  ;  resisted  the 
authorities.  ...  So  they  locked  me  up. 

The  workman.  Locked  you  up,  did  they  ? 
Serve  you  right  for  resisting ! 

Two  Years  Later. 

The  same  workman  to  another.  I  say, 
Pete.  .  . .  Do  you  remember,  the  year  before  last, 
a  chap  with  white  hands  talking  to  you  ? 
272 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

The  other  workman.  Yes;  .  .  .  what 
of  it? 

The  first  workman.  They're  going  to 
hang  him  to-day,  I  heard  say ;  that 's  the  order. 

The  second  workman.  Did  he  keep  on 
resisting  the  authorities  ? 

The  first  workman.  He  kept  on. 

The  second  workman.  Ah!  .  .  .  Now,  I 
say,  mate,  couldn't  we  get  hold  of  a  bit  of  the 
rope  they're  going  to  hang  him  with?  They 
do  say,  it  brings  good  luck  to  a  house ! 

The  first  workman.  You're  right  there. 
We  '11  have  a  try  for  it,  mate. 

April  I S78. 


THE  ROSE 

The  last  days  of  August  .  .  .  Autumn  was 
already  at  hand. 

The  sun  was  setting.  A  sudden  downpour 
of  rain,  without  thunder  or  lightning,  had  just 
passed  rapidly  over  our  wide  plain. 

The  garden  in  front  of  the  house  glowed  and 
steamed,  all  filled  with  the  fire  of  the  sunset  and 
the  deluge  of  rain. 

She  was  sitting  at  a  table  in  the  drawing- 
273  s 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

room,  and,  with  persistent  dreaminess,  gazing 
through  the  half-open  door  into  the  garden. 

I  knew  what  was  passing  at  that  moment 
in  her  soul  ;  I  knew  that,  after  a  brief  but 
agonising  struggle,  she  was  at  that  instant 
giving  herself  up  to  a  feeling  she  could  no 
longer  master. 

All  at  once  she  got  up,  went  quickly  out  into 
the  garden,  and  disappeared. 

An  hour  passed  ...  a  second ;  she  had  not 
returned. 

Then  I  got  up,  and,  getting  out  of  the  house, 
I  turned  along  the  walk  by  which — of  that  I 
had  no  doubt — she  had  gone. 

All  was  darkness  about  me;  the  night  had 
already  fallen.  But  on  the  damp  sand  of  the 
path  a  roundish  object  could  be  discerned — 
bright  red  even  through  the  mist. 

I  stooped  down.  It  was  a  fresh,  new-blown 
rose.  Two  hours  before  I  had  seen  this  very 
rose  on  her  bosom. 

I  carefully  picked  up  the  flower  that  had 
fallen  in  the  mud,  and,  going  back  to  the 
drawing-room,  laid  it  on  the  table  before  her 
chair. 

And  now  at  last  she  came  back,  and  with 
light  footsteps,  crossing  the  whole  room,  sat 
down  at  the  table. 

Her  face  was  both  paler  and  more  vivid  ;  her 
274 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

downcast  eyes,  that  looked  somehow  smaller, 
strayed  rapidly  in  happy  confusion  from  side 
to  side. 

She  saw  the  rose,  snatched  it  up,  glanced  at 
its  crushed,  muddy  petals,  glanced  at  me,  and 
her  eyes,  brought  suddenly  to  a  standstill,  were 
bright  with  tears. 

'  What  are  you  crying  for  ? '  I  asked. 

'Why,  see  this  rose.  Look  what  has  happened 
to  it' 

Then  I  thought  fit  to  utter  a  profound 
remark. 

*  Your  tears  will  wash  away  the  mud,'  I  pro- 
nounced with  a  significant  expression. 

'  Tears  do  not  wash,  they  burn,'  she  answered. 
And  turning  to  the  hearth  she  flung  the  rose 
into  the  dying  flame. 

'  Fire  burns  even  better  than  tears,'  she  cried 
with  spirit ;  and  her  lovely  eyes,  still  bright  with 
tears,  laughed  boldly  and  happily. 

I  saw  that  she  too  had  been  in  the  fire. 
Apnl  1878. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  U.  P.  VREVSKY 

On    dirt,   on    stinking   wet    straw   under    the 

shelter  of  a  tumble-down  barn,  turned  in  haste 

275 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

into  a  camp  hospital,  in  a  ruined  Bulgarian 
village,  for  over  a  fortnight  she  lay  dying  of 
typhus. 

She  was  unconscious,  and  not  one  doctor 
even  looked  at  her ;  the  sick  soldiers,  whom  she 
had  tended  as  long  as  she  could  keep  on  her 
legs,  in  their  turn  got  up  from  their  pestilent 
litters  to  lift  a  few  drops  of  water  in  the  hollow 
of  a  broken  pot  to  her  parched  lips. 

She  was  young  and  beautiful;  the  great 
world  knew  her ;  even  the  highest  dignitaries 
had  been  interested  in  her.  Ladies  had  envied 
her,  men  had  paid  her  court  .  .  .  two  or  three 
had  loved  her  secretly  and  truly.  Life  had 
smiled  on  her ;  but  there  are  smiles  that  are 
worse  than  tears. 

A  soft,  tender  heart  .  .  .  and  such  force,  such 
eagerness  for  sacrifice!  To  help  those  who 
needed  help  .  .  .  she  knew  of  no  other  happi- 
ness .  .  .  knew  not  of  it,  and  had  never  once 
known  it  Every  other  happiness  passed  her 
by.  But  she  had  long  made  up  her  mind  to 
that ;  and  all  aglow  with  the  fire  of  unquench- 
able faith,  she  gave  herself  to  the  service  of  her 
neighbours. 

What  hidden  treasure  she  buried  there  in  the 
depth  of  her  heart,  in  her  most  secret  soul,  no 
one  ever  knew  ;  and  now,  of  course,  no  one  will 
ever  know. 

276 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

Ay,  and  what  need  ?  Her  sacrifice  is  made 
.  .  .  her  work  is  done. 

But  grievous  it  is  to  think  that  no  one  said 
thanks  even  to  her  dead  body,  though  she  herself 
was  shy  and  shrank  from  all  thanks. 

May  her  dear  shade  pardon  this  belated 
blossom,  which  I  make  bold  to  lay  upon  her 
grave ! 

Sepiember  1878. 


THE  LAST  MEETING 

We  had  once  been  close  and  warm  friends.  .  .  . 
But  an  unlucky  moment  came  .  .  .  and  we 
parted  as  enemies. 

Many  years  passed  by.  .  .  .  And  coming  to 
the  town  where  he  lived,  I  learnt  that  he  was 
helplessly  ill,  and  wished  to  see  me. 

I  made  my  way  to  him,  went  into  his  room. 
,  .  .  Our  eyes  met. 

I  hardly  knew  him.  God !  what  sickness  had 
done  to  him ! 

Yellow,  wrinkled,  completely  bald,  with  a 
scanty  grey  beard,  he  sat  clothed  in  nothing  but 
a  shirt  purposely  slit  open.  .  .  .  He  could  not 
bear  the  weight  of  even  the  lightest  clothes. 
Jerkily  he  stretched  out  to  me  his  fearfully  thin 
277 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

hand  that  looked  as  if  it  were  gnawed  away, 
with  an  effort  muttered  a  few  indistinct  words — 
whether  of  welcome  or  reproach,  who  can  tell  ? 
His  emaciated  chest  heaved,  and  over  the 
dwindled  pupils  of  his  kindling  eyes  rolled  two 
hard-wrung  tears  of  suffering. 

My  heart  sank.  ...  I  sat  down  on  a  chair 
beside  him,  and  involuntarily  dropping  my  eyes 
before  the  horror  and  hideousness  of  it,  I  too 
held  out  my  hand. 

But  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  not  his  hand 
that  took  hold  of  me. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  between  us  is  sitting  a 
tall,  still,  white  woman.  A  long  robe  shrouds 
her  from  head  to  foot.  Her  deep,  pale  eyes 
look  into  vacancy ;  no  sound  is  uttered  by  her 
pale,  stern  lips. 

This  woman  has  joined  our  hands.  .  .  .  She 
has  reconciled  us  for  ever. 

Yes.  .  .  .  Death  has  reconciled  us.  .  .  . 

April  1878. 


A  VISIT 

I  WAS  sitting  at  the  open  window  ...  in  the 
morning,  the  early  morning  of  the  first  of  May. 
The  dawn  had  not  yet  begun  ;  but  already 
278 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

the  dark,  warm  night  grew  pale  and  chill  at  its 
approach. 

No  mist  had  risen,  no  breeze  was  astir,  all 
was  colourless  and  still  .  .  .  but  the  nearness  of 
the  awakening  could  be  felt,  and  the  rarer  air 
smelt  keen  and  moist  with  dew. 

Suddenly,  at  the  open  window,  with  a  light 
whirr  and  rustle,  a  great  bird  flew  into  my 
room. 

I  started,  looked  closely  at  it  .  .  .  It  was  not 
a  bird  ;  it  was  a  tiny  winged  woman,  dressed  in 
a  narrow  long  robe  flowing  to  her  feet. 

She  was  grey  all  over,  the  colour  of  mother- 
of-pearl  ;  only  the  inner  side  of  her  wings 
glowed  with  the  tender  flush  of  an  opening 
rose ;  a  wreath  of  valley  lilies  entwined  the 
scattered  curls  upon  her  little  round  head  ;  and, 
like  a  butterfly's  feelers,  two  peacock  feathers 
waved  drolly  above  her  lovely  rounded  brow. 

She  fluttered  twice  about  the  ceiling ;  her 
tiny  face  was  laughing  ;  laughing,  too,  were  her 
great,  clear,  black  eyes. 

The  gay  frolic  of  her  sportive  flight  set  them 
flashing  like  diamonds. 

She  held  in  her  hand  the  long  stalk  of  a 
flower  of  the  steppes — '  the  Tsar's  sceptre,'  the 
Russians  call  it — it  is  really  like  a  sceptre. 

Flying  rapidly  above  me,  she  touched  my 
head  with  the  flower. 

279 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

I  rushed  towards  her.  .  .  .  But  already 
she  had  fluttered  out  of  window,  and  darted 
away.  .  .  . 

In  the  garden,  in  a  thicket  of  lilac  bushes,  a 
wood-dove  greeted  her  with  its  first  morning 
warble  .  .  .  and  where  she  vanished,  the  milk- 
white  sky  flushed  a  soft  pink. 

I  know  thee.  Goddess  of  Fantasy  1  Thou 
didst  pay  me  a  random  visit  by  the  way ;  thou 
hast  flown  on  to  the  young  poets. 

O  Poesy !  Youth !  Virginal  beauty  of 
woman !  Thou  couldst  shine  for  me  but  for  a 
moment,  in  the  early  dawn  of  early  spring  1 

May  1878. 


NECESSITAS—  VIS—LIBERTASl 

A   BAS-RELIEF 

A  TALL,  bony  old  woman,  with  iron  face  and 
dull,  fixed  look,  moves  with  long  strides,  and, 
with  an  arm  dry  as  a  stick,  pushes  before  her 
another  woman. 

This  woman — of  huge  stature,  powerful,  thick- 
set, with  the  muscles  of  a  Hercules,  with  a  tiny 
head  set  on  a  bull  neck,  and  blind — in  her  turn 
pushes  before  her  a  small,  thin  girl. 
280 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

This  girl  alone  has  eyes  that  see  ;  she  resists, 
turns  round,  lifts  fair,  delicate  hands ;  her  face, 
full  of  life,  shows  impatience  and  daring.  .  .  . 
She  wants  not  to  obey,  she  wants  not  to  go, 
where  they  are  driving  her  .  .  .  but,  still,  she 
has  to  yield  and  go. 

Necessitas —  Vis — Libertas  / 

Who  will,  may  translate. 

May  1878. 


ALMS 

Near  a  large  town,  along  the  broad  highroad 
walked  an  old  sick  man. 

He  tottered  as  he  went ;  his  old  wasted  legs, 
halting,  dragging,  stumbling,  moved  painfully 
and  feebly,  as  though  they  did  not  belong  to 
him ;  his  clothes  hung  in  rags  about  him ;  his 
uncovered  head  drooped  on  his  breast.  ,  .  .  He 
was  utterly  worn-out. 

He  sat  down  on  a  stone  by  the  wayside,  bent 
forward,  leant  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands;  and  through  the  knotted 
fingers  the  tears  dropped  down  on  to  the  grey, 
dry  dust. 

He  remembered.  .  .  . 

Remembered  how  he  too  had  been  strong 
281 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

and  rich,  and  how  he  had  wasted  his  health, 
and  had  lavished  his  riches  upon  others, 
friends  and  enemies.  .  .  .  And  here,  he  had  not 
now  a  crust  of  bread  ;  and  all  had  forsaken 
him,  friends  even  before  foes.  .  .  .  Must  he  sink 
to  begging  alms  ?  There  was  bitterness  in  his 
heart,  and  shame. 

The  tears  still  dropped  and  dropped,  spotting 
the  grey  dust 

Suddenly  he  heard  some  one  call  him  by  his 
name ;  he  lifted  his  weary  head,  and  saw 
standing  before  him  a  stranger. 

A  face  calm  and  grave,  but  not  stern ;  eyes 
not  beaming,  but  clear ;  a  look  penetrating,  but 
not  unkind. 

'  Thou  hast  given  away  all  thy  riches,'  said  a 
tranquil  voice.  ...  *  But  thou  dost  not  regret 
having  done  good,  surely  ? ' 

'  I  regret  it  not,'  answered  the  old  man  with 
a  sigh ;  '  but  here  I  am  dying  now.' 

'  And  had  there  been  no  beggars  who  held 
out  their  hands  to  thee,'  the  stranger  went  on, 
'  thou  wouldst  have  had  none  on  whom  to 
prove  thy  goodness  ;  thou  couldst  not  have  done 
thy  good  works.' 

The  old  man  answered  nothing,  and  pondered. 

'  So  be  thou  also  now  not  proud,  poor  man,' 
the  stranger  began  again.  *  Go  thou,  hold  out 
thy  hand  ;  do  thou  too  give  to  other  good  men 
282 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

a  chance  to  prove  in  deeds  that  they  are 
good.' 

The  old  man  started,  raised  his  eyes  .  .  . 
but  already  the  stranger  had  vanished,  and  in 
the  distance  a  man  came  into  sight  walking 
along  the  road. 

The  old  man  went  up  to  him,  and  held  out 
his  hand.  This  man  turned  away  with  a  surly 
face,  and  gave  him  nothing. 

But  after  him  another  passed,  and  he  gave 
the  old  man  some  trifling  alms. 

And  the  old  man  bought  himself  bread  with 
the  coppers  given  him,  and  sweet  to  him 
seemed  the  morsel  gained  by  begging,  and 
there  was  no  shame  in  his  heart,  but  the 
contrary:  peace  and  joy  came  as  a  blessing 
upon  him. 

May  1S78. 


THE   INSECT 

I  DREAMED  that  we  were  sitting,  a  party  of 
twenty,  in  a  big  room  with  open  windows. 

Among  us  were  women,  children,  old  men. 
.  .  ,  We  were  all  talking  of  some  very  well- 
known  subject,  talking  noisily  and  indistinctly. 

Suddenly,  with  a  sharp,  whirring  sound,  there 
283 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

flew  into  the  room  a  big  insect,  two  inches  long 
...  it  flew  in,  circled  round,  and  settled  on  the 
wall. 

It  was  like  a  fly  or  a  wasp.  Its  body  dirt- 
coloured  ;  of  the  same  colour  too  its  flat,  stifl" 
wings ;  outspread  feathered  claws,  and  a  head 
thick  and  angular,  like  a  dragon-fly's ;  both 
head  and  claws  were  bright  red,  as  though 
steeped  in  blood. 

This  strange  insect  incessantly  turned  its 
head  up  and  down,  to  right  and  to  left,  moved 
its  claws  .  .  .  then  suddenly  darted  from  the 
wall,  flew  with  a  whirring  sound  about  the 
room,  and  again  settled,  again  hatefully  and 
loathsomely  wriggling  all  over,  without  stirring 
from  the  spot. 

In  all  of  us  it  excited  a  sensation  of  loathing, 
dread,  even  terror.  .  .  .  No  one  of  us  had  ever 
seen  anything  like  it.  We  all  cried :  *  Drive 
that  monstrous  thing  away ! '  and  waved  our 
handkerchiefs  at  it  from  a  distance  .  .  .  but  no 
one  ventured  to  go  up  to  it  .  .  .  and  when  the 
insect  began  flying,  every  one  instinctively 
moved  away. 

Only  one  of  our  party,  a  pale-faced  young 
man,  stared  at  us  all  in  amazement.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  ;  he  smiled,  and  posi- 
tively could  not  conceive  what  had  happened 
to  us,  and  why  we  were  in  such  a  state  of 
284 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

excitement  He  himself  did  not  see  an  insect 
at  all,  did  not  hear  the  ill-omened  whirr  of  its 
wings. 

All  at  once  the  insect  seemed  to  stare  at  him, 
darted  off,  and  dropping  on  his  head,  stung  him 
on  the  forehead,  above  the  eyes.  .  .  .  The  young 
man  feebly  groaned,  and  fell  dead. 

The  fearful  fly  flew  out  at  once.  .  .  .  Only 
then  we  guessed  what  it  was  had  visited  us. 

May  1878. 


CABBAGE  SOUP 

A  PEASANT  woman,  a  widow,  had  an  only  son, 
a  young  man  of  twenty,  the  best  workman  in 
the  village,  and  he  died. 

The  lady  who  was  the  owner  of  the  village, 
hearing  of  the  woman's  trouble,  went  to  visit 
her  on  the  very  day  of  the  burial. 

She  found  her  at  home. 

Standing  in  the  middle  of  her  hut,  before  the 
table,  she  was,  without  haste,  with  a  regular 
movement  of  the  right  arm  (the  left  hung  list- 
less at  her  side),  scooping  up  weak  cabbage 
soup  from  the  bottom  of  a  blackened  pot,  and 
swallowing  it  spoonful  by  spoonful 
285 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

The  woman's  face  was  sunken  and  dark  ;  her 
eyes  were  red  and  swollen  .  .  .  but  she  held 
herself  as  rigid  and  upright  as  in  church. 

'  Heavens  ! '  thought  the  lady,  *  she  can  eat 
at  such  a  moment  .  .  .  what  coarse  feelings 
they  have  really,  all  of  them  ! ' 

And  at  that  point  the  lady  recollected  that 
when,  a  few  years  before,  she  had  lost  her  little 
daughter,  nine  months  old,  she  had  refused,  in 
her  grief,  a  lovely  country  villa  near  Petersburg, 
and  had  spent  the  whole  summer  in  town ! 
Meanwhile  the  woman  went  on  swallowing 
cabbage  soup. 

The  lady  could  not  contain  herself,  at  last. 
*  Tatiana ! '  she  said  ...  *  Really  !  I  'm  sur- 
prised !  Is  it  possible  you  didn't  care  for  your 
son  ?  How  is  it  you  've  not  lost  your  appetite  ? 
How  can  you  eat  that  soup  ! ' 

*  My  Vasia's  dead,'  said  the  woman  quietly, 
and  tears  of  anguish  ran  once  more  down  her 
hollow  cheeks.  'It's  the  end  of  me  too,  of 
course  ;  it 's  tearing  the  heart  out  of  me  alive. 
But  the  soup 's  not  to  be  wasted ;  there 's  salt 
in  it' 

The  lady  only  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
went  away.     Salt  did  not  cost  her  much. 

May  1878. 


286 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 


THE  REALM  OF  AZURE 

O  REALM  of  azure  !  O  realm  of  light  and 
colour,  of  youth  and  happiness !  I  have  be- 
held thee  in  dream.  We  were  together,  a  few, 
in  a  beautiful  little  boat,  gaily  decked  out. 
Like  a  swan's  breast  the  white  sail  swelled 
below  the  streamers  frolicking  in  the  wind. 

I  knew  not  who  were  with  me ;  but  in  all  my 
soul  I  felt  that  they  were  young,  light-hearted, 
happy  as  I  ! 

But  I  looked  not  indeed  on  them.  I  beheld 
all  round  the  boundless  blue  of  the  sea,  dimpled 
with  scales  of  gold,  and  overhead  the  same 
boundless  sea  of  blue,  and  in  it,  triumphant 
and  mirthful,  it  seemed,  moved  the  sun. 

And  among  us,  ever  and  anon,  rose  laughter, 
ringing  and  gleeful  as  the  laughter  of  the  gods  ! 

And  on  a  sudden,  from  one  man's  lips  or 
another's,  would  flow  words,  songs  of  divine 
beauty  and  inspiration,  and  power  ...  it 
seemed  the  sky  itself  echoed  back  a  greeting 
to  them,  and  the  sea  quivered  in  unison.  ,  .  , 
Then  followed  again  the  blissful  stillness. 

Riding  lightly  over  the  soft  waves,  swiftly 
our  little  boat  sped  on.  No  wind  drove  it 
along  ;  our  own  lightly  beating  hearts  guided 
287 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

it  At  our  will  it  floated,  obedient  as  a  living 
thing. 

We  came  on  islands,  enchanted  islands,  half- 
transparent  with  the  prismatic  lights  of  precious 
stones,  of  amethysts  and  emeralds.  Odours  of 
bewildering  fragrance  rose  from  the  rounded 
shores  ;  some  of  these  islands  showered  on  us 
a  rain  of  roses  and  valley  lilies ;  from  others 
birds  darted  up,  with  long  wings  of  rainbow 
hues. 

The  birds  flew  circling  above  us  ;  the  lilies 
and  roses  melted  away  in  the  pearly  foam 
that  glided  by  the  smooth  sides  of  our  boat. 

And,  with  the  flowers  and  the  birds,  sounds 
floated  to  us,  sounds  sweet  as  honey  .  .  . 
women's  voices,  one  fancied,  in  them.  .  .  .  And 
all  about  us,  sky,  sea,  the  heaving  sail  aloft, 
the  gurgling  water  at  the  rudder — all  spoke  of 
love,  of  happy  love ! 

And  she,  the  beloved  of  each  of  us — she  was 
there  .  .  .  unseen  and  close.  One  moment 
more,  and  behold,  her  eyes  will  shine  upon 
thee,  her  smile  will  blossom  on  thee.  .  . 
Her  hand  will  take  thy  hand  and  guide  thee  to 
the  land  of  joy  that  fades  not ! 

O  realm  of  azure !  In  dream  have  I  beheld 
thee. 

June  1878. 

388 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 


TWO  RICH  MEN 

When  I  hear  the  praises  of  the  rich  man 
Rothschild,  who  out  of  his  immense  revenues 
devotes  whole  thousands  to  the  education  of 
children,  the  care  of  the  sick,  the  support  of 
the  aged,  I  admire  and  am  touched. 

But  even  while  I  admire  it  and  am  touched 
by  it,  I  cannot  help  recalling  a  poor  peasant 
family  who  took  an  orphan  niece  into  their  little 
tumble-down  hut. 

'  If  we  take  Katka,'  said  the  woman,  '  our  last 
farthing  will  go  on  her,  there  won't  be  enough 
to  get  us  salt  to  salt  us  a  bit  of  bread.' 

'Well,  .  .  .  we'll  do  without  salt,' answered 
the  peasant,  her  husband. 

Rothschild  is  a  long  way  behind  that  peasant  I 

July  1878. 


THE  OLD  MAN 

Days  of  darkness,  of  dreariness,  have  come. . .  , 
Thy  own  infirmities,  the  sufferings  of  those  dear 
to  thee,  the  chill  and  gloom  of  old  age.  All 
that  thou  hast  loved,  to  which  thou  hast  given 


POEMS   IN  PROSE 

thyself  irrevocably,  is  falling,  going  to  pieces. 
The  way  is  all  down-hill. 

What  canst  thou  do  ?  Grieve  ?  Complain  ? 
Thou  wilt  aid  not  thyself  nor  others  that  way.  .  .  . 

On  the  bowed  and  withering  tree  the  leaves 
are  smaller  and  fewer,  but  its  green  is  yet  the 
same. 

Do  thou  too  shrink  within,  withdraw  into 
thyself,  into  thy  memories,  and  there,  deep 
down,  in  the  very  depths  of  the  soul  turned 
inwards  on  itself,  thy  old  life,  to  which  thou 
alone  hast  the  key,  will  be  bright  again  for 
thee,  in  all  the  fragrance,  all  the  fresh  green, 
and  the  grace  and  power  of  its  spring ! 

But  beware  .  .  .  look  not  forward,  poor  old 
man! 
July  1878. 


THE  REPORTER 

Two  friends  were  sitting  at  a  table  drinking 
tea. 

A  sudden  hubbub  arose  in  the  street  They 
heard  pitiable  groans,  furious  abuse,  bursts  of 
malignant  laughter. 

*  They  're  beating  some  one,'  observed  one  of 
the  friends,  looking  out  of  window. 
290 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

*A  criminal?  A  murderer?'  inquired  the 
other.  *  I  say,  whatever  he  may  be,  we  can't 
allow  this  illegal  chastisement.  Let's  go  and 
take  his  part' 

'  But  it 's  not  a  murderer  they  're  beating.' 

*  Not  a  murderer  ?  Is  it  a  thief  then  ?  It 
makes  no  difference,  let 's  go  and  get  him  away 
from  the  crowd.' 

*  It 's  not  a  thief  either.' 

'Not  a  thief?  Is  it  an  absconding  cashier 
then,  a  railway  director,  an  army  contractor,  a 
Russian  art  patron,  a  lawyer,  a  Conservative 
editor,  a  social  reformer  ?  .  .  .  Any  way,  let 's 
go  and  help  him  ! ' 

*  No  ...  it 's  a  newspaper  reporter  they  're 
beating.* 

'  A  reporter  ?     Oh,   I  tell  you  what :   we  '11 
finish  our  glasses  of  tea  first  then.' 
July  1878. 


THE  TWO  BROTHERS 

It  was  a  vision  .  .  . 

Two  angels  appeared  to  me  .  .  .  two  genii. 

I    say  angels,   genii,   because   both   had   no 
clothes  on  their  naked  bodies,  and  behind  their 
shoulder?  •'ose  long  powerful  wings. 
291 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

Both  were  youths.  One  was  rather  plump, 
with  soft  smooth  skin  and  dark  curls.  His 
eyes  were  brown  and  full,  with  thick  eyelashes ; 
his  look  was  sly,  merry,  and  eager.  His  face 
was  charming,  bewitching,  a  little  insolent,  a 
little  wicked.  His  full  soft  crimson  lips  were 
faintly  quivering.  The  youth  smiled  as  one 
possessing  power  —  self-confidently  and  lan- 
guidly ;  a  magnificent  wreath  of  flowers  rested 
lightly  on  his  shiniug  tresses,  almost  touching 
his  velvety  eyebrows.  A  spotted  leopard's 
skin,  pinned  up  with  a  golden  arrow,  hung 
lightly  from  his  curved  shoulder  to  his  rounded 
thigh.  The  feathers  of  his  wings  were  tinged 
with  rose  colour ;  the  ends  of  them  were  bright 
red,  as  though  dipped  in  fresh-spilt  scarlet  blood. 
From  time  to  time  they  quivered  rapidly  with 
a  sweet  silvery  sound,  the  sound  of  rain  in 
spring. 

The  other  was  thin,  and  his  skin  yellowish. 
At  every  breath  his  ribs  could  be  seen  faintly 
heaving.  His  hair  was  fair,  thin,  and  straight ; 
his  eyes  big,  round,  pale  grey  .  .  .  his  glance 
uneasy  and  strangely  bright.  All  his  features 
were  sharp  ;  the  little  half-open  mouth,  with 
pointed  fish-like  teeth  ;  the  pinched  eagle  nose, 
the  projecting  chin,  covered  with  whitish  down. 
The  parched  lips  never  once  smiled. 

It  was  a  well-cut  face,  but  terrible  and  piti- 
292 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

less !  (Though  the  face  of  the  first,  the  beautiful 
youth,  sweet  and  lovely  as  it  was,  showed  no 
trace  of  pity  either.)  About  the  head  of  the 
second  youth  were  twisted  a  few  broken  and 
empty  ears  of  corn,  entwined  with  faded  grass- 
stalks.  A  coarse  grey  cloth  girt  his  loins  ;  the 
wings  behind,  a  dull  dark  grey  colour,  moved 
slowly  and  menacingly. 

The  two  youths  seemed  inseparable  com- 
panions. Each  of  them  leaned  upon  the  other's 
shoulder.  The  soft  hand  of  the  first  lay  like  a 
cluster  of  grapes  upon  the  bony  neck  of  the 
second ;  the  slender  wrist  of  the  second,  with 
its  long  delicate  fingers,  coiled  like  a  snake 
about  the  girlish  bosom  of  the  first. 

And  I  heard  a  voice.  This  is  what  it  said : 
*  Love  and  Hunger  stand  before  thee — twin 
brothers,  the  two  foundation-stones  of  all  things 
living. 

*  All  that  lives  moves  to  get  food,  and  feeds 
to  bring  forth  young. 

*  Love  and  Hunger — their  aim  is  one ;  that 
life  should  cease  not,  the  life  of  the  individual 
and  the  life  of  others — the  same  universal  life.' 

August  1878. 


293 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 


THE  EGOIST 


He  had  every  qualification  for  becoming  the 
scourge  of  his  family. 

He  was  born  healthy,  was  born  wealthy,  and 
throughout  the  whole  of  his  long  life,  continu- 
ing to  be  wealthy  and  healthy,  he  never  com- 
mitted a  single  sin,  never  fell  into  a  single  error, 
never  once  made  a  slip  or  a  blunder. 

He  was  irreproachably  conscientious !  .  .  . 
And  complacent  in  the  sense  of  his  own  con- 
scientiousness, he  crushed  every  one  with  it,  his 
family,  his  friends  and  his  acquaintances. 

His  conscientiousness  was  his  capital  .  .  . 
and  he  exacted  an  exorbitant  interest  for  it. 

His  conscientiousness  gave  him  the  right  to 
be  merciless,  and  to  do  no  good  deeds  beyond 
what  it  dictated  to  him  ;  and  he  was  merciless, 
and  did  no  good  ...  for  good  that  is  dictated 
is  no  good  at  all. 

He  took  no  interest  in  any  one  except  his 
own  exemplary  self,  and  was  genuinely  in- 
dignant if  others  did  not  take  as  studious  an 
interest  in  it ! 

At  the  same  time  he  did  not  consider  himself 
an  egoist,  and  was  particularly  severe  in  censur- 
ing, and  keen  in  detecting  egoists  and  egoism. 

2QA 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

To  be  sure  he  was.  The  egoism  of  another  was 
a  check  on  his  own. 

Not  recognising  the  smallest  weakness  in 
himself  he  did  not  understand,  did  not  tolerate 
any  weakness  in  any  one.  He  did  not,  in  fact, 
understand  any  one  or  any  thing,  since  he  was 
all,  on  all  sides,  above  and  below,  before  and 
behind,  encircled  by  himself. 

He  did  not  even  understand  the  meaning  of 
forgiveness.  He  had  never  had  to  forgive  him- 
self .  .  .  What  inducement  could  he  have  to 
forgive  others  ? 

Before  the  tribunal  of  his  own  conscience, 
before  the  face  of  his  own  God,  he,  this  marvel, 
this  monster  of  virtue,  raised  his  eyes  heaven- 
wards, and  with  clear  unfaltering  voice  declared, 
*  Yes,  I  am  an  exemplary,  a  truly  moral  man ! ' 

He  will  repeat  these  words  on  his  deathbed, 
and  there  will  be  no  throb  even  then  in  his 
heart  of  stone — in  that  heart  without  stain  or 
blemish ! 

Oh,  hideousness  of  self-complacent,  unbend- 
ing, cheaply  bought  virtue ;  thou  art  almost 
more  revolting  than  the  frank  hideousness  of 
vice ! 

Dec.  1876. 


295 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 


THE   BANQUET  OF  THE  SUPREME 
BEING 

One  day  the  Supreme  Being  took  it  into  his 
head  to  give  a  great  banquet  in  his  palace  of 
azure. 

All  the  virtues  were  invited.  Only  the  virtues 
.  .  .  men  he  did  not  ask  .  .  .  only  ladies. 

There  were  a  great  many  of  them,  great  and 
small.  The  lesser  virtues  were  more  agreeable 
and  genial  than  the  great  ones ;  but  they  all 
appeared  in  good  humour,  and  chatted  amiably 
together,  as  was  only  becoming  for  near  relations 
and  friends. 

But  the  Supreme  Being  noticed  two  charming 
ladies  who  seemed  to  be  totally  unacquainted. 

The  Host  gave  one  of  the  ladies  his  arm  and 
led  her  up  to  the  other. 

'  Beneficence ! '  he  said,  indicating  the  first. 

'  Gratitude  ! '  he  added,  indicating  the  second, 

Both  the  virtues  were  amazed  beyond  ex- 
pression ;  ever  since  the  world  had  stood,  and 
it  had  been  standing  a  long  time,  this  was  the 
first  time  they  had  met 

Dec.  1878, 


296 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 


THE  SPHINX 


YELLOWISH-grey  sand,  soft  at  the  top,  hard, 
grating  below  .  .  .  sand  without  end,  where- 
ever  one  looks. 

And  above  this  sandy  desert,  above  this  sea 
of  dead  dust,  rises  the  immense  head  of  the 
Egyptian  sphinx. 

What  would  they  say,  those  thick,  projecting 
lips,  those  immutable,  distended,  upturned 
nostrils,  and  those  eyes,  those  long,  half-drowsy, 
half-watchful  eyes  under  the  double  arch  of  the 
high  brows  ? 

Something  they  would  say.  They  are  speak- 
ing, truly,  but  only  CEdipus  can  solve  the 
riddle  and  comprehend  their  mute  speech. 

Stay,  but  I  know  those  features  ...  in  them 
there  is  nothing  Egyptian.  White,  low  brow, 
prominent  cheek-bones,  nose  short  and  straight, 
handsome  mouth  and  white  teeth,  soft  mous- 
tache and  curly  beard,  and  those  wide-set,  not 
large  eyes  .  .  .  and  on  the  head  the  cap  of 
hair  parted  down  the  middle,  .  .  .  But  it  is 
thou,  Karp,  Sidor,  Semyon,  peasant  of  Yaroslav, 
of  Ryazan,  my  countryman,  flesh  and  blood, 
Russian  !     Art  thou,  too,  among  the  sphinxes  ? 

Wouldst  thou,  too,  say  somewhat  ?  Yes,  and 
thou,  too,  art  a  sphinx. 

297 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

And  thy  eyes,  those  colourless,  deep  eyes, 
are  speaking  too  .  .  .  and  as  mute  and  enig- 
matic is  their  speech. 

But  where  is  thy  CEdipus  ? 

Alas !  it 's  not  enough  to  don  the  peasant 
smock  to  become  thy  CEdipus,  oh  Sphinx  of 
all  the  Russias  1 

Dec.  1878. 


THE   NYMPHS 

I  STOOD  before  a  chain  of  beautiful  mountains 
forming  a  semicircle.  A  young,  green  forest 
covered  them  from  summit  to  base. 

Limpidly  blue  above  them  was  the  southern 
sky ;  on  the  heights  the  sunbeams  rioted  ;  be- 
low, half-hidden  in  the  grass,  swift  brooks  were 
babbling. 

And  the  old  fable  came  to  my  mind,  how  in 
the  first  century  after  Christ's  birth,  a  Greek 
ship  was  sailing  on  the  -^gean  Sea. 

The  hour  was  mid-day.  ...  It  was  still 
weather.  And  suddenly  up  aloft,  above  the 
pilot's  head,  some  one  called  distinctly,  *  When 
thou  sailest  by  the  island,  shout  in  a  loud  voice, 
"Great  Pan  is  dead!"' 

The  pilot  was  amazed  .  .  .  afraid.  But  when 
298 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

the  ship  passed  the  island,  he  obeyed,  he  called, 
'  Great  Pan  is  dead  ! ' 

And,  at  once,  in  response  to  his  shout,  all 
along  the  coast  (though  the  island  was  un- 
inhabited), sounded  loud  sobs,  moans,  long- 
drawn-out,  plaintive  wailings.  '  Dead  !  dead  is 
great  Pan  ! '  I  recalled  this  story  .  .  .  and  a 
strange  thought  came  to.  '  What  if  I  call  an 
invocation  ?  ' 

But  in  the  sight  of  the  exultant  beauty  around 
me,  I  could  not  think  of  death,  and  with  all  my 
might  I  shouted,  '  Great  Pan  is  arisen  !  arisen  ! ' 
And  at  once,  wonder  of  wonders,  in  answer  to 
my  call,  from  all  the  wide  half-circle  of  green 
mountains  came  peals  of  joyous  laughter,  rose 
the  murmur  of  glad  voices  and  the  clapping 
of  hands.  '  He  is  arisen !  Pan  is  arisen ! ' 
clamoured  fresh  young  voices.  Everything 
before  me  burst  into  sudden  laughter,  brighter 
than  the  sun  on  high,  merrier  than  the  brooks 
that  babbled  among  the  grass.  I  heard  the 
hurried  thud  of  light  steps,  among  the  green 
undergrowth  there  were  gleams  of  the  marble 
white  of  flowing  tunics,  the  living  flush  of  bare 
limbs.  ...  It  was  the  nymphs,  nymphs,  dryads, 
Bacchantes,  hastening  from  the  heights  down  to 
the  plain.  .  .  . 

All  at  once  they  appear  at  every  opening  in 
the  woods.  Their  curls  float  about  their  god- 
299 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

like  heads,  their  slender  hands  hold  aloft 
wreaths  and  cymbals,  and  laughter,  sparkling, 
Olympian  laughter,  comes  leaping,  dancing 
with  them.  .  .  . 

Before  them  moves  a  goddess.  She  is  taller 
and  fairer  than  the  rest ;  a  quiver  on  her  shoul- 
der, a  bow  in  her  hands,  a  silvery  crescent  moon 
on  her  floating  tresses.  .  .  . 

'  Diana,  is  it  thou  ? ' 

But  suddenly  the  goddess  stopped  .  .  .  and 
at  once  all  the  nymphs  following  her  stopped. 
The  ringing  laughter  died  away. 

I  see  the  face  of  the  hushed  goddess  overspread 
with  a  deadly  pallor ;  I  saw  her  feet  grew  rooted 
to  the  ground,  her  lips  parted  in  unutterable 
horror ;  her  eyes  grew  wide,  fixed  on  the  dis- 
tance .  .  .  What  had  she  seen?  What  was 
she  gazing  upon  ? 

I  turned  where  she  was  gazing  .  .  . 

And  on  the  distant  sky-line,  above  the  low 
strip  of  fields,  gleamed,  like  a  point  of  fire 
the  golden  cross  on  the  white  bell-tower  of  a 
Christian  church.  .  .  .  That  cross  the  goddess 
had  caught  sight  of. 

I  heard  behind  me  a  long,  broken  sigh,  like 
the  quiver  of  a  broken  string,  and  when  I 
turned  again,  no  trace  was  left  of  the  nymphs. 
.  .  .  The  broad  forest  was  green  as  before,  and 
only  here  and  there  among  the  thick  network 
300 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

of  branches,  were  fading  gleams  of  something 
white ;  whether  the  nymphs'  white  robes,  or  a 
mist  rising  from  the  valley,  I  know  not. 

But    how    I    mourned    for    those    vanished 
goddesses ! 
Dtc.  1878. 


FRIEND  AND  ENEMY 

A  PRISONER,  condemned  to  confinement  for 
life,  broke  out  of  his  prison  and  took  to  head- 
long flight.  .  .  .  After  him,  just  on  his  heels 
flew  his  gaolers  in  pursuit. 

He  ran  with  all  his  might.  .  .  .  His  pursuers 
began  to  be  left  behind. 

But  behold,  before  him  was  a  river  with  pre- 
cipitous banks,  a  narrow,  but  deep  river.  .  .  . 
And  he  could  not  swim  ! 

A  thin  rotten  plank  had  been  thrown  across 
from  one  bank  to  the  other.  The  fugitive 
already  had  his  foot  upon  it  .  .  .  But  it  so 
happened  that  just  there  beside  the  river  stood 
his  best  friend  and  his  bitterest  enemy. 

His  enemy  said  nothing,  he  merely  folded 
his  arms  ;  but  the  friend  shrieked  at  the  top  of 
his  voice :  '  Heavens  !  What  are  you  doing  ? 
Madman,  think  what  you're  about!  Don't 
you  see  the  plank's  utterly  rotten?  It  will 
301 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

break  under  your  weight,  and  you  will  inevit- 
ably perish  ! ' 

*  But  there  is  no  other  way  to  cross  .  .  .  and 
don't  you  hear  them  in  pursuit  ? '  groaned  the 
poor  wretch  in  despair,  and  he  stepped  on  to 
the  plank. 

'  I  won't  allow  it  I  .  .  .  No,  I  won't  allow 
you  to  rush  to  destruction  ! '  cried  the  zealous 
friend,  and  he  snatched  the  plank  from  under 
the  fugitive.  The  latter  instantly  fell  into  the 
boiling  torrent,  and  was  drowned. 

The  enemy  smiled  complacently,  and  walked 
away ;  but  the  friend  sat  down  on  the  bank, 
and  fell  to  weeping  bitterly  over  his  poor  .  .  . 
poor  friend ! 

To  blame  himself  for  his  destruction  did  not 
however  occur  to  him  .  .  .  not  for  an  instant. 

'  He  would  not  listen  to  me  !  He  would  not 
listen  I '  he  murmured  dejectedly. 

'  Though  indeed,'  he  added  at  last.  '  He 
would  have  had,  to  be  sure,  to  languish  his 
whole  life  long  in  an  awful  prison !  At  any 
rate,  he  is  out  of  suffering  now !  He  is  better 
off  now !  Such  was  bound  to  be  his  fate,  I 
suppose ! 

'  And  yet  I  am  sorry,  from  humane  feeling  ! ' 

And  the  kind  soul  continued  to  sob  incon- 
solably  over  the  fate  of  his  misguided  friend. 

Dec.  1878. 

302 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 


CHRIST 


I  SAW  myself,  in  dream,  a  youth,  almost  a  boy, 
in  a  low-pitched  wooden  church.  The  slim 
wax  candles  gleamed,  spots  of  red,  before  the 
old  pictures  of  the  saints. 

A  ring  of  coloured  light  encircled  each  tiny 
flame.  Dark  and  dim  it  was  in  the  church. 
.  .  .  But  there  stood  before  me  many  people. 
All  fair-haired,  peasant  heads.  From  time 
to  time  they  began  swaying,  falling,  rising 
again,  like  the  ripe  ears  of  wheat,  when  the 
wind  of  summer  passes  in  slow  undulation  over 
them. 

All  at  once  some  man  came  up  from  behind 
and  stood  beside  me. 

I  did  not  turn  towards  him  ;  but  at  once  I 
felt  that  this  man  was  Christ. 

Emotion,  curiosity,  awe  overmastered  me 
suddenly.  I  made  an  effort  .  .  .  and  looked 
at  my  neighbour. 

A  face  like  every  one's,  a  face  like  all  men's 
faces.  The  eyes  looked  a  little  upwards,  quietly 
and  intently.  The  lips  closed,  but  not  com- 
pressed ;  the  upper  lip,  as  it  were,  resting  on 
the  lower ;  a  small  beard  parted  in  two.  The 
303 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

hands  folded  and  still.  And  the  clothes  on  him 
like  every  one's. 

'  What  sort  of  Christ  is  this  ? '  I  thought 
*  Such  an  ordinary,  ordinary  man  !     It  can't  be  !' 

I  turned  away.  But  I  had  hardly  turned  my 
eyes  away  from  this  ordinary  man  when  I  felt 
again  that  it  really  was  none  other  than  Christ 
standing  beside  me. 

Again  I  made  an  effort  over  myself  .  .  . 
And  again  the  same  face,  like  all  men's  faces, 
the  same  everyday  though  unknown  features. 

And  suddenly  my  heart  sank,  and  I  came  to 
myself  Only  then  I  realised  that  just  such  a 
face — a  face  like  all  men's  faces — is  the  face  of 
Chrii-t 

Dtc.  \878. 


304 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 


II 

[1879-1882] 
THE  STONE 

Have  you  seen  an  old  grey  stone  on  the  sea- 
shore, when  at  high  tide,  on  a  sunny  day  of 
spring,  the  living  waves  break  upon  it  on  all 
sides  —  break  and  frolic  and  caress  it — and 
sprinkle  over  its  sea-mossed  head  the  scattered 
pearls  of  sparkling  foam  ? 

The  stone  is  still  the  same  stone ;  but  its 
sullen  surface  blossoms  out  into  bright  colours. 

They  tell  of  those  far-off  days  when  the 
molten  granite  had  but  begun  to  harden,  and 
was  all  aglow  with  the  hues  of  fire. 

Even  so  of  late  was  my  old  heart  surrounded, 
broken  in  upon  by  a  rush  of  fresh  girls'  souls 
.  .  .  and  under  their  caressing  touch  it  flushed 
with  long-faded  colours,  the  traces  of  burnt-out 
fires  ! 

The  waves  have  ebbed  back  .  .  .  but  the 
colours  are  not  yet  dull,  though  a  cutting  wind 
is  drying  them. 

May  1879. 

305  u 


POEMS  IN    PROSE 


THE  DOVES 


I  STOOD  on  the  top  of  a  sloping  hillside  ;  before 
me,  a  gold  and  silver  sea  of  shifting  colour, 
stretched  the  ripe  rye. 

But  no  little  wavelets  ran  over  that  sea ;  no 
stir  of  wind  was  in  the  stifling  air;  a  great 
storm  was  gathering. 

Near  me  the  sun  still  shone  with  dusky  fire ; 
but  beyond  the  rye,  not  very  far  away,  a  dark- 
blue  storm-cloud  lay,  a  menacing  mass  over 
full  half  of  the  horizon. 

All  was  hushed  ...  all  things  were  faint 
under  the  malignant  glare  of  the  last  sun  raya 
No  sound,  no  sight  of  a  bird  ;  even  the  sparrows 
hid  themselves.  Only  somewhere  close  by, 
persistently  a  great  burdock  leaf  flapped  and 
whispered. 

How  strong  was  the  smell  of  the  wormwood 
in  the  hedges !  I  looked  at  the  dark-blue  mass 
,  .  .  there  was  a  vague  uneasiness  at  my  heart. 
*  Come  then,  quickly,  quickly !'  was  my  thought, 
'flash,  golden  snake,  and  roll  thunder!  move, 
hasten,  break  into  floods,  evil  storm-cloud  ;  cut 
short  this  agony  of  suspense  ! ' 

But  the  storm-cloud  did  not  move.  It  lay  as 
306 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

before,  a  stifling  weight  upon  the  hushed  earth 
.  .  .  and  only  seemed  to  swell  and  darken. 

And  lo,  over  its  dead  dusky-blue,  something 
darted  in  smooth,  even  flight,  like  a  white  hand- 
kerchief or  a  handful  of  snow.  It  was  a  white 
dove  flying  from  the  direction  of  the  village. 

It  flew,  flew  on  straight  .  .  .  and  plunged 
into  the  forest.  Some  instants  passed  by — still 
the  same  cruel  hush.  .  .  ,  But,  look !  Two 
handkerchiefs  gleam  in  the  air,  two  handfuls 
of  snow  are  floating  back,  two  white  doves 
are  winging  their  way  homewards  with  even 
flight. 

And  now  at  last  the  storm  has  broken,  and 
the  tumult  has  begun  ! 

I  could  hardly  get  home.  The  wind  howled, 
tossing  hither  and  thither  in  frenzy ;  before  it 
scudded  low  red  clouds,  torn,  it  seemed,  into 
shreds;  everything  was  whirled  round  in  con- 
fusion ;  the  lashing  rain  streamed  in  furious 
*-orrents  down  the  upright  trunks,  flashes  of 
lightning  were  blinding  with  greenish  light, 
sudden  peals  of  thunder  boomed  like  cannon- 
shots,  the  air  was  full  of  the  smell  of  sulphur.  .  .  . 

But  under  the  overhanging  roof,  on  the  sill 
of  the  dormer  window,  side  by  side  sat  two 
white  doves,  the  one  who  flew  after  his  mate, 
and  the  mate  he  brought  back,  saved,  perhaps, 
from  destruction. 

307 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

They  sit  ruffling  up  their  feathers,  and  each 
feels  his  mate's  wing  against  his  wing.  .  .  . 

They  are  happy !  And  I  am  happy,  seeing 
them.  .  .  .  Though  I  am  alone  .  .  .  alone,  as 
always. 

May  1879. 


TO-MORROW!  TO-MORROW! 

How  empty,  dull,  and  useless  is  almost  every 
day  when  it  is  spent !  How  few  the  traces  it 
leaves  behind  it !  How  meaningless,  how  foolish 
those  hours  as  they  coursed  by  one  after  another! 

And  yet  it  is  man's  wish  to  exist  ;  he  prizes 
life,  he  rests  hopes  on  it,  on  himself,  on  the 
future.  .  .  .  Oh,  what  blessings  he  looks  for 
from  the  future ! 

But  why  does  he  imagine  that  other  coming 
days  will  not  be  like  this  day  he  has  just  lived 
through  ? 

Nay,  he  does  not  even  imagine  it.  He  likes 
not  to  think  at  all,  and  he  does  well. 

'  Ah,  to-morrow,  to-morrow  ! '  he  comforts 
himself,  till  'to-morrow'  pitches  him  into  the 
grave. 

Well,  and  once  in  the  grave,  thou    hast  no 
choice,  thou  doest  no  more  thinking. 
May  1879. 

508 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 


NATURE 


I  DREAMED  I  had  come  into  an  immense 
underground  temple  with  lofty  arched  roof.  It 
was  filled  with  a  sort  of  underground  uniform 
light. 

In  the  very  middle  of  the  temple  sat  a 
majestic  woman  in  a  flowing  robe  of  green 
colour.  Her  head  propped  on  her  hand,  she 
seemed  buried  in  deep  thought. 

At  once  I  was  aware  that  this  woman  was 
Nature  herself;  and  a  thrill  of  reverent  awe 
sent  an  instantaneous  shiver  through  my  inmost 
soul. 

I  approached  the  sitting  figure,  and  making  a 
respectful  bow,  '  O  common  Mother  of  us  all ! ' 
I  cried,  '  of  what  is  thy  meditation  ?  Is  it  of 
the  future  destinies  of  man  thou  ponderest  ?  or 
how  he  m.ay  attain  the  highest  possible  perfec- 
tion and  happiness  ? ' 

The  woman  slowly  turned  upon  me  her  dark 
menacing  eyes.  Her  lips  moved,  and  I  heard 
a  ringing  voice  like  the  clang  of  iron. 

*  I  am  thinking  how  to  give  greater  power  to 
the  leg-muscles  of  the  flea,  that  he  may  more 
easily  escape  from  his  enemies.  The  balance  of 
attack  and  defence  is  broken.  ...  It  must  be 
restored.' 

309 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

'  What,'  I  faltered  in  reply,  '  what  is  it  thou 
art  thinking  upon  ?  But  are  not  we,  men,  thy 
favourite  children  ? ' 

The  woman  frowned  slightly.  *  All  creatures 
are  my  children,'  she  pronounced,  *  and  I  care 
for  them  alike,  and  all  alike  I  destroy.' 

*  But  right  ,  .  .  reason  .  .  .  justice  .  .  .'  I 
faltered  again. 

'  Those  are  men's  words,'  I  heard  the  iron 
voice  saying.  *  I  know  not  right  nor  wrong.  .  .  . 
Reason  is  no  law  for  me — and  what  is  justice? 
— I  have  given  thee  life,  I  shall  take  it  away 
and  give  to  others,  worms  or  men  ...  I  care 
not.  .  .  .  Do  thou  meanwhile  look  out  for  thy- 
self, and  hinder  me  not ! ' 

I  would  have  retorted  .  .  .  but  the  earth 
uttered  a  hollow  groan  and  shuddered,  and  I 
awoke. 

August  1879. 


'HANG  HIM!' 

*  It  happened  in  1 803,'  began  my  old  acquaint- 
ance, *  not  long  before  Austerlitz.  The  regiment 
in  which  I  was  an  officer  was  quartered  in 
Moravia. 

*  We  had  strict  orders  not  to  molest  or  annoy 
the  inhabitants  ;  as  it  was,  they  regarded  us 
310 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

very  dubiously,  though  we  were  supposed  to  be 
allies. 

'  I  had  a  servant,  formerly  a  serf  of  my 
mother's,  Yegor,  by  name.  He  was  a  quiet, 
honest  fellow ;  I  had  known  him  from  a  child, 
and  treated  him  as  a  friend. 

'Well,  one  day,  in  the  house  where  I  was 
living,  I  heard  screams  of  abuse,  cries,  and 
lamentations  ;  the  woman  of  the  house  had  had 
two  hens  stolen,  and  she  laid  the  theft  at  my 
servant's  door.  He  defended  himself,  called 
me  to  witness.  ..."  Likely  he  'd  turn  thief,  he, 
Yegor  Avtamonov !  "  I  assured  the  woman  of 
Yegor's  honesty,  but  she  would  not  listen 
to  me. 

*  All  at  once  the  thud  of  horses'  hoofs  was 
heard  along  the  street ;  the  commander-in-chief 
was  riding  by  with  his  staff.  He  was  riding 
at  a  walking  pace,  a  stout,  corpulent  man,  with 
drooping  head,  and  epaulettes  hanging  on  his 
breast. 

'  The  woman  saw  him,  and  rushing  before  his 
horse,  flung  herself  on  her  knees,  and,  bare- 
headed and  all  in  disorder,  she  began  loudly 
complaining  of  my  servant,  pointing  at  him. 

•"General!"  she  screamed;  "your  Excel- 
lency !  make  an  inquiry !  help  me !  save  me  I 
this  soldier  has  robbed  me ! " 

'  Yegor  stood  at  the  door  of  the  house,  bolt 
311 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

upright,  his  cap  in  his  hand,  he  even  arched  his 
chest  and  brought  his  heels  together  like  a 
sentry,  and  not  a  word !  Whether  he  was 
abashed  at  all  the  general's  suite  halting  there 
in  the  middle  of  the  street,  or  stupefied  by  the 
calamity  facing  him,  I  can't  say,  but  there  stood 
my  poor  Yegor,  blinking  and  white  as  chalk  ! 

'  The  commander-in-chief  cast  an  abstracted 
and  sullen  glance  at  him,  growled  angrily, 
"  Well  ?  "  .  .  .  Yegor  stood  like  a  statue,  show- 
ing his  teeth  as  if  he  were  grinning !  Looking 
at  him  from  the  side,  you  'd  say  the  fellow  was 
laughing ! 

'Then  the  commander-in-chief  jerked  out: 
"  Hang  him  !  "  spurred  his  horse,  and  moved  on, 
first  at  a  walking-pace,  then  at  a  quick  trot. 
The  whole  staff  hurried  after  him  ;  only  one 
adjutant  turned  round  on  his  saddle  and  took 
a  passing  glance  at  Yegor. 

'  To  disobey  was  impossible.  .  .  .  Yegor  was 
seized  at  once  and  led  off  to  execution. 

*  Then  he  broke  down  altogether,  and  simply 
gasped  out  twice,  "  Gracious  heavens !  gracious 
heavens ! "  and  then  in  a  whisper,  "  God  knows, 
it  wasn't  me ! " 

*  Bitterly,  bitterly  he  cried,  saying  good-bye  to 
me.  I  was  in  despair.  "  Yegor !  Yegor ! "  I 
cried,  "how  came  it  you  said  nothing  to  the 
general  ?  " 

312 


POEMS   IN    PROSE 

* "  God  knows,  it  wasn't  me  !  "  the  poor  fellow 
repeated,  sobbing.  The  woman  herself  was 
horrified.  She  had  never  expected  such  a 
dreadful  termination,  and  she  started  howling 
on  her  own  account !  She  fell  to  imploring  all 
and  each  for  mercy,  swore  the  hens  had  been 
found,  that  she  was  ready  to  clear  it  all  up,  .  .  . 

'  Of  course,  all  that  was  no  sort  of  use.  Those 
were  war-times,  sir !  Discipline  !  The  woman 
sobbed  louder  and  louder. 

'  Yegor,  who  had  received  absolution  from  the 
priest,  turned  to  me. 

*  "  Tell  her,  your  honour,  not  to  upset  herself 
.  .  .  I  Ve  forgiven  her.'" 

My  acquaintance,  as   he   repeated   this,   his 
servant's    last    words,    murmured,    '  My    poor 
Yegor,  dear  fellow,  a  real  saint ! '  and  the  tears 
trickled  down  his  old  cheeks. 
August  1879. 


WHAT  SHALL  I  THINK?  .  .  . 

What  shall  I  think  when  I  come  to  die,  if 
only  I  am  in  a  condition  to  think  anything 
then? 

Shall  I  think  how  little  use  I  have  made  of 
313 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

my  life,  how  I  have  slumbered,  dozed  through 
it,  how  little  I  have  known  how  to  enjoy  its 
gifts  ? 

'What?  is  this  death?  So  soon?  Impossible! 
Why,  I  have  had  no  time  to  do  anything  yet. 
...  I  have  only  been  making  ready  to  begin  !  * 

Shall  I  recall  the  past,  and  dwell  in  thought 
on  the  few  bright  moments  I  have  lived  through 
— on  precious  images  and  faces  ? 

Will  my  ill  deeds  come  back  to  my  mind,  and 
will  my  soul  be  stung  by  the  burning  pain  of 
remorse  too  late  ? 

Shall  I  think  of  what  awaits  me  beyond  the 
grave  .  .  .  and  in  truth  does  anything  await 
me  there  ? 

No.  ...  I  fancy  I  shall  try  not  to  think,  and 
shall  force  myself  to  take  interest  in  some  trifle 
simply  to  distract  my  own  attention  from  the 
menacing  darkness,  which  is  black  before  me. 

I  once  saw  a  dying  man  who  kept  complain- 
ing they  would  not  let  him  have  hazel-nuts  to 
munch !  .  .  .  and  only  in  the  depths  of  his 
fast-dimming  eyes,  something  quivered  and 
struggled  like  the  torn  wing  of  a  bird  wounded 
to  death.  ,  .  . 

August  1879L 


314 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 


'HOW  FAIR,  HOW  FRESH  WERE  THE 
ROSES  .  .  .» 

Somewhere,  sometime,  long,  long  ago,  I  read 
a  poem.  It  was  soon  forgotten  .  .  .  but  the 
first  line  has  stuck  in  my  memory — 

*  How  fair,  how  fresh  were  the  roses  .  .  .' 

Now  is  winter ;  the  frost  has  iced  over  the 
window-panes ;  in  the  dark  room  burns  a 
solitary  candle.  I  sit  huddled  up  in  a  corner ; 
and  in  my  head  the  line  keeps  echoing  and 
echoing — 

*  I/oio  fair,  how  fresh  were  the  roses  .  .  ,* 

And  I  see  myself  before  the  low  window  of  a 
Russian  country  house.  The  summer  evening 
is  slowly  melting  into  night,  the  warm  air  is 
fragrant  of  mignonette  and  lime-blossom  ;  and 
at  the  window,  leaning  on  her  arm,  her  head 
bent  on  her  shoulder,  sits  a  young  girl,  and 
silently,  intently  gazes  into  the  sky,  as  though 
looking  for  new  stars  to  come  out.  What 
candour,  what  inspiration  in  the  dreamy  eyes, 
what  moving  innocence  in  the  parted  question- 
ing lips,  how  calmly  breathes  that  still-growing, 
31S 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

still-untroubled  bosom,  how  pure  and  tender  the 
profile  of  the  young  face !  I  dare  not  speak 
to  her ;  but  how  dear  she  is  to  me,  how  my 
heart  beats ! 

*  How  fair,  horw  fresh  were  the  roses  .  .  .' 

But  here  in  the  room  it  gets  darker  and 
darker,  .  .  .  The  candle  burns  dim  and  gutters, 
dancing  shadows  quiver  on  the  low  ceiling,  the 
cruel  crunch  of  the  frost  is  heard  outside,  and 
within  the  dreary  murmur  of  old  age.  .  .  . 

'  How  fair,  how  fresh  were  the  roses  .  .  .' 

There  rise  up  before  me  other  images.  I 
hear  the  merry  hubbub  of  home  life  in  the 
country.  Two  flaxen  heads,  bending  close  to- 
gether, look  saucily  at  me  with  their  bright  eyes, 
rosy  cheeks  shake  with  suppressed  laughter, 
hands  are  clasped  in  warm  affection,  young 
kind  voices  ring  one  above  the  other ;  while  a 
little  farther,  at  the  end  of  the  snug  room,  other 
hands,  young  too,  fly  with  unskilled  fingers 
over  the  keys  of  the  old  piano,  and  the 
Lanner  waltz  cannot  drown  the  hissing  of  the 
patriarchal  samovar  .  .  . 

*  How  fair,  how  fresh  were  the  roses  .  .  .' 

The  candle  flickers  and  goes  out  .  .  .  Whose  is 

that  hoarse  and  hollow  cough  ?     Curled  up,  my 

316 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

old  dog  lies,  shuddering  at  my  feet,  my  only 
companion.  ...  I  'm  cold  ...  I  'm  frozen  .  .  . 
and  all  of  them  are  dead  .  .  .  dead  .  .  . 

''  How  fair,  how  fresh  were  the  roses  .  .  .' 
Sept.  1879. 


ON  THE  SEA 

I  WAS  going  from  Hamburg  to  London  in  a 
small  steamer.  We  were  two  passengers ;  I 
and  a  little  female  monkey,  whom  a  Hamburg 
merchant  was  sending  as  a  present  to  his 
English  partner. 

She  was  fastened  by  a  light  chain  to  one  of 
the  seats  on  deck,  and  was  moving  restlessly 
and  whining  in  a  little  plaintive  pipe  like  a 
bird's. 

Every  time  I  passed  by  her  she  stretched  out 
her  little,  black,  cold  hand,  and  peeped  up  at  me 
out  of  her  little  mournful,  almost  human  eyes.  I 
took  her  hand,  and  she  ceased  whining  and 
moving  restlessly  about. 

There  was  a  dead  calm.     The  sea  stretched 

on  all  sides  like  a  motionless  sheet  of  leaden 

colour.    It  seemed  narrowed  and  small ;  a  thick 

fog  overhung  it,  hiding  the  very  mast-tops  in 

317 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

cloud,  and  dazing  and  wearying  the  eyes  with  its 
soft  obscurity.  The  sun  hung,  a  dull  red  blur 
in  this  obscurity ;  but  before  evening  it  glowed 
with  strange,  mysterious,  lurid  light. 

Long,  straight  folds,  like  the  folds  in  some 
heavy  silken  stuff,  passed  one  after  another  over 
the  sea  from  the  ship's  prow,  and  broadening  as 
they  passed,  and  wrinkling  and  widening,  were 
smoothed  out  again  with  a  shake,  and  vanished. 
The  foam  flew  up,  churned  by  the  tediously 
thudding  wheels ;  white  as  milk,  with  a  faint 
hiss  it  broke  up  into  serpentine  eddies,  and 
then  melted  together  again  and  vanished  too, 
swallowed  up  by  the  mist. 

Persistent  and  plaintive  as  the  monkey's 
whine  rang  the  small  bell  at  the  stem. 

From  time  to  time  a  porpoise  swam  up, 
and  with  a  sudden  roll  disappeared  below  the 
scarcely  ruffled  surface. 

And  the  captain,  a  silent  man  with  a  gloomy, 
sunburnt  face,  smoked  a  short  pipe  and  angrily 
spat  into  the  dull,  stagnant  sea. 

To  all  my  inquiries  he  responded  by  a  dis- 
connected grumble.  I  was  obliged  to  turn  to 
my  sole  companion,  the  monkey. 

I  sat  down  beside  her ;  she  ceased  whining, 
and  again  held  out  her  hand  to  me. 

The  clinging  fog  oppressed  us  both  with  its 
drowsy  dampness  ;  and  buried  in  the  same  un- 
318 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

conscious  dreaminess,  we  sat  side  by  side  like 
brother  and  sister. 

I  smile  now  .  .  .  but  then  I  had  another 
feeling. 

We  are  all  children  of  one  mother,  and  I.  was 
glad  that  the  poor  little  beast  was  soothed  and 
nestled  so  confidingly  up  to  me,  as  to  a  brother. 

November  1879. 


N.  N. 

Calmly  and  gracefully  thou  movest  along  the 
path  of  life,  tearless  and  smileless,  and  scarce 
a  heedless  glance  of  indifferent  attention  ruffles 
thy  calm. 

Thou  art  good  and  wise  .  .  .  and  all  things 
are  remote  from  thee,  and  of  no  one  hast  thou 
need. 

Thou  art  fair,  and  no  one  can  say,  whether 
thou  prizest  thy  beauty  or  not.  No  sympathy 
hast  thou  to  give  ;  none  dost  thou  desire. 

Thy  glance  is  deep,  and  no  thought  is  in  it ; 
in  that  clear  depth  is  emptiness. 

So  in  the  Elysian  field,  to  the  solemn  strains 
of  Gluck's  melodies,  move  without  grief  or  bliss 
the  graceful  shades. 

November  1879. 

319 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 


STAY! 


Stay  !  as  I  see  thee  now,  abide  for  ever  in  my 
memory ! 

From  thy  lips  the  last  inspired  note  has 
broken.  No  light,  no  flash  is  in  thy  eyes  ;  they 
are  dim,  weighed  down  by  the  load  of  happi- 
ness, of  the  blissful  sense  of  the  beauty,  it  has 
been  thy  glad  lot  to  express — the  beauty,  groping 
for  which  thou  hast  stretched  out  thy  yearning 
hands,  thy  triumphant,  exhausted  hands  ! 

What  is  the  radiance — purer  and  higher  than 
the  sun's  radiance — all  about  thy  limbs,  the 
least  fold  of  thy  raiment  ? 

What  god's  caressing  breath  has  set  thy 
scattered  tresses  floating? 

His  kiss  burns  on  thy  brow,  white  now  as 
marble. 

This  is  it,  the  mystery  revealed,  the  mystery 
of  poesy,  of  life,  of  love !  This,  this  is  im- 
mortality !  Other  immortality  there  is  none, 
nor  need  be.  For  this  instant  thou  art  im- 
mortal. 

It  passes,  and  once  more  thou  art  a  grain  of 
dust,  a  woman,  a  child.  .  .  .  But  why  need'st 
thou  care !  For  this  instant,  thou  art  above, 
thou  art  outside  all  that  is  passing,  temporary. 
This  thy  instant  will  never  end. 
320 


POEMS  IN    PROSE 


Stay !  and  let  me  share  in  thy  immortality ; 
shed  into  my  soul  the  light  of  thy  eternity ! 

November  1879. 


THE  MONK 

I  USED  to  know  a  monk,  a  hermit,  a  saint.  He 
lived  only  for  the  sweetness  of  prayer ;  and 
steeping  himself  in  it,  he  would  stand  so  long  on 
the  cold  floor  of  the  church  that  his  legs  below 
the  knees  grew  numb  and  senseless  as  blocks 
of  wood.  He  did  not  feel  them ;  he  stood  on 
and  prayed. 

I  understood  him,  and  perhaps  envied  him  ; 
but  let  him  too  understand  me  and  not  condemn 
me  ;  me,  for  whom  his  joys  are  inaccessible. 

He  has  attained  to  annihilating  himself,  his 
hateful  ego  ;  but  I  too  ;  it 's  not  from  egoism,  I 
pray  not. 

My  ego,  may  be,  is  even  more  burdensome 
and  more  odious  to  me,  than  his  to  him. 

He  has  found  wherein  to  forget  himself  .  .  . 
but  I,  too,  find  the  same,  though  not  so  con- 
tinuously. 

He  does  not  lie  .  .  .  but  neither  do  I  lie. 

November  1879 

321  X 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 


WE  WILL  STILL  FIGHT  ON 

What  an  insignificant  trifle   may  sometimes 
transform  the  whole  man  ! 

Full  of  melancholy  thought,  I  walked  one 
day  along  the  highroad. 

My  heart  was  oppressed  by  a  weight  of 
gloomy  apprehension  ;  I  was  overwhelmed  by 
dejection.  I  raised  my  head.  .  .  .  Before  me, 
between  two  rows  of  tall  poplars,  the  road 
darted  like  an  arrow  into  the  distance. 

And  across  it,  across  this  road,  ten  paces 
from  me,  in  the  golden  light  of  the  dazzling 
summer  sunshine,  a  whole  family  of  sparrows 
hopped  one  after  another,  hopped  saucily,  drolly, 
self-reliantly ! 

One  of  them,  in  particular,  skipped  along 
sideways  with  desperate  energy,  puffing  out 
his  little  bosom  and  chirping  impudently,  as 
though  to  say  he  was  not  afraid  of  any  one ! 
A  gallant  little  warrior,  really  ! 

And,  meanwhile,  high  overhead  in  the  heavens 
hovered  a  hawk,  destined,  perhaps,  to  devour 
that  little  warrior. 

I    looked,   laughed,  shook    myself,   and   the 
mournful    thoughts    flew   right    away :    pluck, 
daring,  zeal  for  life  I  felt  anew. 
322 


POEMS   IN   PROSE 

Let  him,  too,  hover  over  me,  my  hawk  .  . 
We  will  fight  on,  and  damn  it  all  1 

November  1879. 


PRAYER 

Whatever  a  man  pray  for  he  prays  for  a 
miracle.  Every  prayer  reduces  to  this  :  *  Great 
God,  grant  that  twice  two  be  not  four.' 

Only  such  a  prayer  is  a  real  prayer  from 
person  to  person.  To  pray  to  the  Cosmic 
Spirit,  to  the  Higher  Being,  to  the  Kantian, 
Hegelian,  quintessential,  formless  God  is  im- 
possible and  unthinkable. 

But  can  even  a  personal,  living,  imaged  God 
make  twice  two  not  be  four  ? 

Every  believer  is  bound  to  answer,  he  can, 
and  is  bound  to  persuade  himself  of  it. 

But  if  reason  sets  him  revolting  against  this 
senselessness  ? 

Then  Shakespeare  comes  to  his  aid  :  *  There 
are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio,' 
etc. 

And  if  they  set  about  confuting  him  in  the 
name  of  truth,  he  has  but  to  repeat  the  famous 
question, '  What  is  truth  ? ' 
323 


POEMS  IN   PROSE 

And  SO,  let  us  drink  and  be  merry,  and  say 
our  prayers. 

July  i88l. 


THE  RUSSIAN  TONGUE 

In  days  of  doubt,  in  days  of  dreary  musings  on 
my  country's  fate,  thou  alone  art  my  stay  and 
support,  mighty,  true,  free  Russian  speech ! 
But  for  thee,  how  not  fall  into  despair,  seeing 
all  that  is  done  at  home  ?  But  who  can  think 
that  such  a  tongue  is  not  the  gift  of  a  great 
people ! 

June  1882. 


THE  END 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty, 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


,,"C  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL 


LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  123  218 


